


Maiden Flight

by holdingpattern



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Alpha/Omega, Knotting, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Omega Verse, Unrealistic Sex, Virginity, with Realistic Consequences
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-11
Updated: 2013-12-09
Packaged: 2017-12-23 02:21:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 34,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/920854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holdingpattern/pseuds/holdingpattern
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The stress of Martin's one-engine landing in St. Petersburg sets off a biological trigger, spinning him quickly into his very first heat cycle. Luckily, Douglas is there to explain and provide <em>assistance</em>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Heavily inspired by [goseaward's "Like Glue"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/411141), which I always wanted a Cabin Pressure version of. In the end, I decided to write it myself.
> 
> This is pretty much PWP at present, but there might be a bit more plot later.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Douglas lets Martin lead in departing the flight deck, and it's only because there's a breeze outside that tickles at his nose that he acquires the last crucial piece of evidence to put it _all_ together. He rubs his nose with the fingers that had so recently clutched to Martin's hand, the hand that Martin had just used to rub at the back of his neck, and he smells _Omega_.

Douglas doesn’t notice the change right away, although in hindsight he can see that the signs were there. Martin only sipped at the tepid coffee Arthur fetched and barely ate two bites of his grey porridge in the canteen, but both could have been explained by the fact that they were the terribly unappetising offerings of Pulkovo Airport. True, Martin wasn’t usually very picky about what he ate, but everyone had his limit, right?

And if Martin was tense and irritable during the aftermath of the goose smoothie and before Gordon’s _generous_ gifting of GERTI’s new engine to MJN, then that was understandable too. The future of the company was on the line. (Never mind that Martin doesn’t get paid; he’s always been loyal.)

So it’s on the flight back that Douglas starts to put things together, although, really, it’d be difficult not to notice that something is different. Martin hardly stays in his seat for a stretch of more than four minutes between visits to the loo. He’s pale, and his face and neck glow with a mild sweat. He declines any part of the cheese tray, even looking a bit green as he pushes it back towards Douglas.

After Martin returns from the loo only to turn around again before he’s even had the chance to reseat himself, Douglas decides to have mercy. When Martin returns a second time and takes his seat, Douglas looks him in the eye. “I have control,” he says quietly. No need to _talk_ about it.

Martin nods and confirms, “You have control.”

The rest of the flight is as smooth as Douglas can manage—which is to say: very smooth _indeed_ —and Martin spends the time he doesn’t spend in the loo sitting stiffly with his arms wrapped around his midsection and his eyes fixed on the controls in front of him, determination evidenced in the tight press of his lips. At this point, Douglas’s hypothesis is food poisoning, although the fact that Martin’s hardly _ingested_ anything in the last twenty-four hours niggles at the back of his mind.

Martin shuts his eyes during the landing—a first, surely—and keeps them closed, his throat visibly working as he swallows repeatedly. Douglas is ready to leave the flight deck before Martin’s even opened one eye, so he steps close and lays a hand on Martin’s shoulder.

“All right, Martin? Do you need a ride home, or—perhaps more immediately pressing—a bucket?”

Martin chokes on a laugh and then presses a hand to his forehead, rubbing at it, then at the back of his neck.

“No, I think I’m fine.” He opens his eyes, blinks. “Thanks.”

Douglas offers his hand, and Martin takes it as he stands. Douglas lets Martin lead in departing the flight deck, and it’s only because there’s a breeze outside that tickles at his nose that he acquires the last crucial piece of evidence to put it _all_ together. He rubs his nose with the fingers that had so recently clutched to Martin’s hand, the hand that Martin had just used to rub at the back of his neck, and he smells _Omega_. It stops him dead in his tracks for several seconds, stunned. And conflicted. He can’t help but be aroused; his cock is filling even now. But that can’t be his priority, because this concerns _Martin_ , who’s never before given any indication of having a mutated gender. Unless Douglas just wasn’t paying close enough attention?

Douglas has to break into a jog to catch up to Martin, already half across the tarmac, hurrying towards his van. Douglas reaches for Martin’s arm without thinking and then lets go almost immediately. He’s got no right.

But Martin turns, of course. “Douglas?” he asks.

“Are you sure you’ll be all right? You’re, ah… _prepared_ for the next few days?”

Martin frowns. “Why wouldn’t I be? It’s just a bit of stomach flu, and I’m not a– I’ll be fine.”

“Just a bit of stomach flu,” Douglas echoes.

“Yes, nothing life-threatening,” Martin says slowly, crossing his arms over his chest. “You don’t think I’m capable of taking care of myself, is that it?” Martin’s tone is beyond just bordering on and now _invading_ defensive territory.

“Of course not,” Douglas replies smoothly. “I’m sure you’re quite capable of handling any and all of the expected effects, regular as they are.”

Martin’s frowns only deepens, but the defensiveness is replaced by confusion when he repeats, “Regular?”

And that means they _haven’t_ been speaking in code, and Douglas has to grit his teeth against the impulse to step closer and wrap around and hold and _protect_. Luckily, he’s grown better at resisting temptations of _all_ sorts over the years.

“Martin,” he says lowly, almost in a growl. “We need to talk.”

* * *

Douglas accompanies Martin back to the student house where he rents the attic, trailing behind Martin’s van in his Lexus and breaking out into a heart-pounding cold sweat every time it appears as though he might lose Martin. But he doesn’t. He parks on the street behind Martin’s van and concentrates on keeping his hands to himself as Martin unlocks the front door, although the temptation to touch his fingertips to the curve of Martin’s lower back is almost irresistible. Martin fixes him with a questioning look, once they’re inside, and Douglas cocks his head to the stairs in response. This has to be a _private_ conversation.

Douglas closes the attic door behind him and waits for Martin to decide where he should sit. Martin sits sideways on the cheap rolling chair set in front of a crooked-legged table that seems to serve as his desk. There aren’t any other chairs, so Douglas takes a perch at the end of Martin’s futon bed. This puts him at a lower level than Martin, but that may not be a bad thing.

“What–” Martin starts.

Douglas holds up a hand to stop him. “You _truly_ don’t know what’s about to happen, what your body’s preparing for?”

“No?” Martin gulps and looks to the side. “It is…different. How I feel, I mean.”

“Yes, I imagine it’s a bit new. Martin–”

“Am I dying?” Martin barks out, suddenly.

“No! Heavens, no!” Douglas reaches, then stops himself. Martin sees and frowns at Douglas’s restraint.

“I don’t understand.”

“I know. Just– This will take a bit to explain. Patience?”

Martin nods, and Douglas tries to convince himself the glassy look in Martin’s eyes isn’t tears. Or, hell, it could be; emotional lability is a common complaint in a pre-oestrus Omega. Douglas inhales and exhales deeply. How to explain? “From what I can see, Martin, you’re not a man, not biologically,” Douglas starts, deciding direct is best. “You’re an Omega, and you’re just about to enter your first heat cycle. That makes you, well, a _very_ late bloomer, but it’s not unheard of. Probably the stress of the landing in St. Petersburg set you off, I suppose. Or set your hormones off, rather.”

Douglas pauses and laces the fingers of his two hands together. Still the temptation to reach for Martin persists, especially now that Martin’s brow is wrinkled in concern and confusion, his eyes still shining, threatening tears. “A heat cycle is a time of peak fertility. Were you to be bred by an Alpha for the next few days, you’d almost certainly get pregnant…unless you employed prophylactic measures, of course.”

“Pregnant?” Martin echoes in a whisper, and then, louder and in protest, “But I’m–”

“No, you’re not, at least not biologically speaking. You have a womb. In the next twenty-four hours one of your ovaries will release an egg. You’re not a woman, either, understand. You’re an Omega. Only an Alpha would be able to successfully impregnate you, if that was what you wanted.”

“What I wanted,” Martin echoes again. Then, fixing Douglas in his gaze: “Douglas,” Martin demands, “ _where_?”

“Where…or rather _whence_ you’ve been evacuating the contents of your intestines.” Douglas winces even as he speaks.

It takes Martin a second. “My arse? You mean to tell me I can get up the duff in my _arse_?” Martin’s voice climbs an octave, and his body rises to a stand, the chair wheeling away behind him. “Oh, _very_ good, Douglas. Excellent practical joke. Bizarre and incredibly elaborate, even for you– Did you put something in my _coffee_ , in St. Petersburg? To make me sick?”

“No, no,” Douglas protests.

“Oh, _give it up_ ,” Martin spits. “And please _leave_.” Martin pulls at Douglas’s wrist vainly and then gives up and throws the door wide open, gesturing through it. “Get. Out.”

“Martin, please don’t–” Douglas protests, even as he heaves himself off the futon.

Martin says nothing, only presses his lips more tightly together and jerks his chin at the open doorway.

“Martin, you don’t know–” Douglas tries again.

“I know you _very_ well, actually.”

Martin slams the door behind Douglas, and Douglas can feel the thump as he throws his back to it and then slides to the floor in a slump.

“Call me when you have questions,” Douglas says. He presses his hand to the closed door and tries to keep his words as gentle as possible. “I’m not angry. I know you don’t understand yet, so please just be careful and call me if you need me. Or if you want answers. You will want them. Please trust me on that.”

* * *

Martin possesses a truly remarkable amount of self-discipline, as it turns out. Douglas isn’t precisely surprised, but he’s still not pleased that Martin doesn’t ring until half eleven the following morning. By the time he does, he can barely string words together.

“Douglas?”

Douglas heart pounds. “Yes? What do you need, Martin?”

“Douglas. _Help_ …please? I don’t know what’s happening to me,” Martin whispers.

Douglas is hyperconscious of his driving and of every obstacle on the road. It feels like hours before he’s slotting back into the parking space he’d vacated the previous evening. A student lets him in after a knock and directs him straight up, which is a relief. Martin needs to stay behind closed doors now.

Douglas almost doesn’t knock, but it’s a good thing he does. A few seconds to gather himself are better than none when he opens the door and steps into a den of _ripe_ Omega.

Martin is curled into a ball in the middle of his futon, arms clasping his knees to his chest. He’s wearing just a pair of boxer shorts and a threadbare vest. His toes flex against the sheets, and he’s rocking himself subtly back and forth. When Douglas enters, he looks at Douglas’s face for only a brief second before dropping his eyes to Douglas’s groin.

“You’re an Alpha,” he croaks.

“Yes.”

“I– Oh God,” Martin pauses, his whole body rippling with a shiver of arousal. “ _Please_.”

Douglas tosses a plastic sack, tied at the top, onto the futon before the rutting part of his brain can do something stupid like toss it out the window, leaving no other humane options. “I can’t, Martin. You’re not yourself. But there’s…aids in there for you.”

Martin ignores the bag. “ _Douglas_.” He unfolds himself, laying back on his elbows and letting his legs settle askew, his erection the centrepiece. The movement strengthens his scent in the room, and Douglas is hard as steel now, no question about it.

“Martin–” Douglas starts.

“You kissed me once.”

“What?”

“Marseilles. You remember. I was a bit tipsy, but you weren’t.”

“You turned me down.”

Martin shivers again, but his eyes are clear, his gaze fixed. “I did. I’d never– I’d never even _wanted_ before. It was confusing then, but I know what I want now.”

“I know it _feels_ like that–”

“It feels like that because it _is_ like that! And it’s not–” Martin scrambles to his knees and then off the bed entirely, coming to stand before Douglas. His erection juts out, his shorts not putting up much resistance, and if he comes any closer, _that’s_ how he and Douglas will touch. “You wouldn’t be taking advantage. I may be a bit desperate, but I know what I’m doing. I’m not going to regret it.”

“You can’t know that.”

“Yes, actually, I can. I can _decide_ that, Douglas. I can make decisions for myself.” Martin widens his stance and puts his hands on his hips. “I don’t need you deciding what’s best for me. I need your–” Martin’s eyes drop to the considerable length of Douglas’s cock, outlined by its desperate swell under his trousers.

“If you can’t say it,” Douglas warns, half-teasing, half-serious.

“Your cock in my arse,” Martin finishes, his cheeks flooding with red.

Douglas doesn’t know how to respond. This—Martin’s outburst, his sudden assertion of self-determination—is entirely unexpected. If he takes it at face value… But no. He _can’t_. He _shouldn’t_.

Martin’s blush fades, and his angry determination is polluted with uncertainty. He begins to chew at his bottom lip, then opens his mouth to speak, but Douglas holds up a hand. God, he’s pathetic. So much for self-restraint.

“All right, you’ve convinced me. But–” Douglas reaches—can’t resist any longer—and frees Martin’s bottom lip from his teeth, thumbing across it gently and holding Martin’s jaw steady, holding Martin’s eyes to his. “There are still things we need to discuss. Birth control, for one. And you don’t understand all of the aspects of heat sex or even your own anatomy. I won’t– You need to be well-informed.”

“Okay,” Martin says, accidentally catching Douglas’s thumb in his mouth as his lips move to form the word. He suckles at it once he has it, the action entirely instinctual and entirely too arousing. Douglas pulls his thumb free reluctantly, but keeps his hold on Martin’s jaw.

“You’re– You haven’t done _anything_ before, correct?”

Martin tries to turn his face away, but Douglas’s grip is firm.

“No. Nothing,” Martin says miserably, and Douglas feels something clench in his chest with the need to relieve that misery.

“It’s fine. Perfectly understandable, in fact.” Douglas steps close and gathers Martin in by the waist. He kisses Martin gently, holding still in order not to miss every detail of the moment: Martin’s surprised intake of breath, the plushness of his lips, the push of his cock against Douglas’s thigh. Martin must be _painfully_ desperate, at this point; it’s not exactly a good time for a serious conversation.

Douglas releases Martin’s lips and turns his head to the side to speak, his words washing over Martin’s burning cheek. “I was just thinking that before we talk– That you might do better if we take the edge off for you first. I don’t imagine you’re finding it very easy to concentrate.”

“Oh God _please_ ,” Martin begs, bucking harder against Douglas’s thigh and twisting his head to kiss Douglas, thrusting his tongue inside Douglas’s mouth before he’s even sealed their lips together.

Douglas lets go of Martin’s waist to steady Martin’s face with both hands, slowing down the kiss. He walks Martin backwards to the bed and breaks their mouths apart to nudge Martin to sit on the edge, nudging him again to lean back on his elbows as he reaches for the waistband of Martin’s pants.

“All right?”

Martin nods, biting his lip again, but this time it’s clear that anticipation is behind the action, not uncertainty or shame.

Douglas pulls Martin’s pants off slowly, stretching them in front to clear Martin’s erection and easing them out from under Martin by prompting him to roll his weight onto one hip, then the other. Having the task to focus on is a blessing; the scent of Martin’s heat is so much stronger without the cloth barrier. It makes Douglas long to hook his hands into the crooks of Martin’s knees and tip him up to bury his face in Martin’s arse so that he can taste Martin’s heat directly from the source. But that’s not likely to be received well just yet. _Someday, perhaps_ , Douglas promises his throbbing cock.

Douglas tugs off Martin’s vest and eases him to lay on his back, then leans over him to fetch a pillow, enjoying the heat radiating from Martin’s skin as he does. The pillow he drops on the floor for his knees, and he smiles as Martin spreads his legs for Douglas to situate himself between them, sitting on his heels. He lifts one of Martin’s legs over his shoulder and strokes a palm from Martin’s knee to his hip and back again.

“I’m going to suck you,” Douglas says; he stops to smile at the sight of Martin’s ribs jumping with the gasping hitch in his breath. “And I’m going to use a finger to open you up a bit. All right?”

Martin’s heel digs into Douglas back for a second. “Yes,” Martin gasps, “ _please_.”

Douglas wastes no time in swallowing Martin’s cock all the way the root. He sets a fast rhythm with tight suction, and Martin’s hips jerk to it soon enough. Martin tastes _amazing_ , his arousal freshly tangy and pungent. If Douglas didn’t know better, he’d swear he could _taste_ Martin’s virginity.

Douglas trails his fingers from the base of Martin’s cock past his balls and over his perineum until they meet puckered skin, slick with Martin’s heat. Martin’s hole flutters under Douglas’s touch immediately, and Douglas is encouraged to rub back and forth over it, pressing just slightly in with the tip of a finger when it dips into the very centre.

Martin is moaning freely, for once unselfconscious in his desperation and sounding completely undone. His heel bumps against Douglas’s back as he squirms to get more of Douglas’s mouth or more of his fingertips.

“In, please, _in_ ,” he pleads when Douglas has wriggled just the tip of one finger into the hugging clasp of Martin’s hole. Douglas increases the suction of his mouth around Martin’s cock and obeys, twisting his middle finger into Martin’s arse all the way down to the bottom knuckle. Martin clenches around the digit, and his come floods Douglas mouth, taking him entirely by surprise. Martin’s hips stutter as his orgasm fades, but Douglas keeps his mouth firm around Martin’s cock and keeps swallowing until there’s nothing left to swallow. When Martin’s hips finally puddle onto the bed, Douglas pulls his mouth off but keeps twisting his finger slowly inside Martin’s arse.

Martin reaches for Douglas, his arm trembling slightly. It takes a bit of maneuvering, but Douglas eventually manages to settle them both on the bed, Martin curled into his side, head on his shoulder, one leg splayed over both of his own so that Douglas can keep his finger inside Martin’s arse. Martin toys idly with Douglas’s shirt buttons and occasionally loses all focus everywhere except his hips, which work with quick little thrusts and grasping clenches around Douglas’s finger, culminating in a fresh spill of slick heat.

“So,” Douglas begins, “you believe me now.”

“I suppose,” Martin mumbles. “The pregnancy thing still sounds pretty far-fetched, but it’s obvious there’s something going on with my body.” Martin rolls his hips even as he says this, and Douglas has to bite back a laugh at the timing. “And whatever we need to prevent…you know, it’s fine. I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt when the consequences otherwise could be life-altering.”

“Condoms.”

“What?”

“What we need. Do you have any?”

“Yes, in the bedside cabinet.”

Douglas struggles to reach with his free arm, but he manages in the end. The box is unopened and in date. Good.

“There are other methods. But you’ll need to see a doctor if you want to try a pill.”

Martin grimaces.

“You’ll need to see a doctor anyway, in fact. Make sure everything’s in order.” Douglas pauses to stroke his free hand over Martin’s back. Martin relaxes a little more at the touch, but Douglas doesn’t stop. Martin’s skin is silky and hot under his palm, _wonderful_. “So,” Douglas begins again. “The heat cycle. Yours has started, I think you believe me on that.” Martin nods into Douglas’s chest. “They tend to last three days. Sometimes two, sometimes four, rarely more or less than that. The Omega wants to be penetrated by an Alpha’s cock as many times as possible during that time. Penetrated and–” Douglas pauses, then speaks on an exhale, “knotted.”

“Knotted?”

“An Alpha’s penis has a bulbous protrusion near the base that swells as orgasm approaches, locking the penis inside while the Alpha ejaculates. While the Alpha ejaculates several times, in fact. Again, there is variance, but a knotting usually lasts about twenty minutes. Near the end of a heat it might be only five minutes, and there are tall tales of hours-long knottings, but those are most likely just tall tales. One hour is reasonably possible, perhaps, but not four.”

Martin seems to accept this, perhaps reasoning (quite rightly) that it would hardly be productive for Douglas to lie about something that Martin’s about to have direct evidence of.

“Does it hurt?”

Douglas rubs his palm between Martin’s shoulder blades. “No. In the wrong position it might, of course, or if the Omega isn’t ready or relaxed enough. And it will be a stretch, at first, I imagine. I don’t have direct experience, you realise.”

“Hmm,” Martin agrees, and he opens his mouth and pants hotly into Douglas’s chest as he’s overcome by another surge of arousal, working himself around Douglas’s finger until he relaxes with a sigh and Douglas’s hand is dripping with his heat. “Right now it feels like I could fit _anything_ in there,” he says absently.

Douglas’s cock twitches, and he groans, “ _Jesus_ , Martin.”

Martin tilts his head up to look Douglas in the eye and grins devilishly.

“So the, um…knot is the anatomy you wanted me to be aware of?”

“Not just that.”

“What else?”

“Your vagina.” Douglas raises his eyebrows warningly when Martin recoils, but Martin doesn’t say anything. “It’s _internal_ ,” Douglas explains, “sealed off from your rectum by a mucosal plug, usually. But at the beginning of a heat cycle, the plug dissolves. You excreted it yesterday, I’m sure.” Talking about it makes Douglas _think_ about it—think about pushing the head of his cock past the tight little ring, over and over again, the extra friction teasing the most sensitive parts of his cock, near torturous—but exquisite, exquisite torture—as he tries not to come.

“And?” Martin prompts.

Douglas can’t really find the words and fails completely at speaking only in hypotheticals. “And the head of my cock will push inside it. You’ll feel me there. I won’t just be penetrating your arse.”

“Oh. Will _that_ hurt?”

Douglas cards his fingers through Martin’s hair and kisses him on the forehead. “No, no, it shouldn’t. Actually–”

“What?”

“I might be able to show you, a bit, if I can reach.” Douglas wiggles his finger inside Martin to demonstrate.

“Oh, OK. Go on.”

Douglas tugs at the leg Martin has braced over him. “Here, try to– Hold as wide as possible.”

With Martin helping to brace his legs apart, Douglas twists his hand and presses and reaches, the knuckles of his other folded-up fingers pressing hard into the skin around Martin’s hole. He waggles his fingertip around inside, searching. It takes a couple of tries, but finally he catches the edge of the opening and presses it gently. “There,” he says, although he hardly needs to emphasise the point.

The sound Martin makes is strangled, and he digs his fingers into Douglas’s shoulder as he pushes back into the hand teasing him. “I need– Oh _God_ , Douglas, I need…”

Douglas kisses Martin’s forehead again, pushing a few sweaty locks out of the way. He withdraws his finger from Martin’s arse. Once it’s free, Martin scrambles, possessed. He tugs at the button at the top of Douglas’s trouser placket until it comes free, then struggles with the zip. Douglas helps so far as to get himself stripped down to his pants, but then he stops Martin, holding him by the hips.

“Are you sure?”

Martin utters a frustrated grunt and rolls his eyes.

“ _Martin_ ,” Douglas admonishes, but possibly he spoils it a bit in reaching for the box of condoms.

“I trust you,” Martin starts in a rush. “Not just when we’re flying together, you know. You’re…my best friend. I care about you, and I think you care about me…” Martin trails off, but it’s not only due to awkwardness. Douglas is off the bed, stepping out of his pants, and Martin gapes at his cock. (As well he should, Douglas can’t remember being harder in his life. His cock is steel hard, purpling and insistently curving up to his stomach.)

Returning to the bed, Douglas makes a pile out of the pillows and settles back against them.

“Come here.” Douglas guides and settles Martin over his lap. “I do care about you, rather a lot,” Douglas kisses Martin gently. “And that’s why I need to double-check. Are you sure you’re ready for this?”

Martin recaptures Douglas’s mouth, kissing a little desperately. Douglas lets him have his way, caressing Martin’s tongue with his own and soothing his hands over Martin’s back and hips and the top of his arse.

“Yes,” Martin breaks away, panting. “I want you.”

“All right.” Douglas pecks a kiss to the corner of Martin’s mouth and reaches between Martin’s legs to gather up heat slick from his cleft. He spreads the slick over his condom-sheathed cock and then gathers up more, his cock throbbing as Martin squirms at the glancing touches around his hole. Douglas arranges Martin’s hips with two hands, then lets go with one to brace his cock, nestling the head of it between Martin’s arse cheeks to touch his hole. “You set the pace. Just bear down and let gravity do the work. And tell me if you need anything or want to stop.”

Martin’s fingernails bite into Douglas’s shoulders as he begins to bear down. Martin looks down as the head of Douglas’s cock breeches him, but he can’t actually see the action from his position. When the head of Douglas’s cock pops just past his sphincter, Martin throws his head back and gasps through bared teeth. He shifts his knees to spread his thighs wider and bears down to sink himself a few inches further down on Douglas’s cock, then pauses, thighs trembling.

Douglas shifts his hand from Martin’s hip to his taut stomach, pressing into Martin’s lower abdomen with a hope to ground him a little.

“All right?”

Martin nods.

“Tell me what it’s like,” Douglas demands, wanting _words_ from Martin for reassurance.

“Very, um…stretched. I felt so empty before, I thought I could take anything, but you’re very big. So full.”

Douglas’s cock swells a tiny bit more at the description, and he longs to pull Martin’s hips down until Martin is stuffed with him, all the way to the hilt, but he bites the inside of his cheek and asks instead, “Does it hurt?”

Martin looks Douglas straight in the eye as he speaks, “It aches a little, but in a good way. Just a stretch.” Martin draws back a little, then sinks back to the same depth. He repeats this process several times, his abdominal muscles shifting under Douglas’s hand.

Douglas tries to be patient, but the silky hot tightness around his cock eats away at his self-control. “Do you think you could take a little more?” he finally bites out, moving his hand from Martin’s stomach to grasp his cock and pump it smoothly. This has the desired effect: Martin shudders and loses his concentration momentarily, sinking down another inch. He gasps and seems not to be able to decide whether to focus on the added invasion or on the fact that he’s barreling near to another orgasm. Douglas removes the need to choose by rubbing roughly over Martin’s slit and twisting two fingers around the base of his glans until Martin’s cock twitches and spurts. Martin collapses forward onto Douglas’s chest and relaxes completely around Douglas’s cock, sinking down until the head nudges at his vaginal opening and then nudges inside. Martin whimpers and struggles to pull back a little but can’t seem to muster the muscle control.

“Sorry,” Douglas soothes, moving his hands to Martin’s hips. “Do you need–?” He pulls Martin’s hips up a little and feels the head of his cock slip back out of the tight ring deep inside. Martin gasps and presses his slack mouth against Douglas’s cheek.

“Tell me what you need,” Douglas tries again.

Martin doesn’t answer in words. He bears down to push himself down fully, taking the head of Douglas’s cock back into his snug inner passage. “ _Fuck_ , that’s–” Martin doesn’t finish.

Douglas uses his hands to guide Martin’s hips in a loop of the action. Up until his cock head is free of Martin’s internal opening, down to push it back inside. Again. And again.

Martin pants over Douglas’s cheek, and even though he’s trying to suppress his moans, every half-articulated nasal and guttural sound reaches Douglas’s ear, so close nearby. When Martin’s post-orgasm muscle weakness fades, he takes over from Douglas’s hands on his hips, and he lengthens each stroke, pulling halfway off Douglas’s cock before sitting back onto it. He keeps the pace slow and languid, and that’s _delicious_ —truly—but at the same time Douglas is getting desperate to participate. He catches Martin’s hips at the bottom of a stroke and holds them tightly, grinding his hips up, feeling the base of his cock stretch Martin’s hole just a fraction wider and the head of his cock touch Martin’s vaginal walls where nothing has touched before.

Martin pushes up and braces himself again with his hands on Douglas’s shoulders.

“Keep–” Douglas grinds up again. “ _Yes_.” Martin takes a gulping breath. “Keep doing that.”

Douglas complies. It couldn’t be properly called fucking, but it’s fantastic all the same, holding Martin down on his cock and grinding up rhythmically. And Douglas has been hard for what seems like _ages_ ; he can’t last much longer now. Springs of ready-to-burst arousal gather at the base of his cock where his knot will swell.

“Martin.” Douglas stretches up to push his forehead against Martin’s and bump their noses briefly. “I’m going to knot very soon. If you don’t want that, you have to tell me now.”

Martin doesn’t respond, and his eyes are closed.

“Martin,” Douglas tries again. Still no response.

Douglas pinches Martin’s left nipple, and Martin’s eyes fly open. “Yes,” he gasps, but it’s too late anyway. Douglas’s knot is already expanding, ballooning outwards to stopper Martin’s arse so tightly that not even any slippery microscopic sperm will be able to slip out. Martin’s face contorts as the expansion proceeds, and a pained grunt escapes his mouth.

When his knot is fully expanded and Douglas can breathe again, coming down from his first orgasm of many, he pets Martin’s chest and sides, tries to coax the muscles to relax. Martin is tense everywhere, and he’s blinking rapidly.

“Hurts?”

Martin nods. “A bit.”

“Sorry.” Douglas wraps a hand around Martin’s cock and strokes gently in apology. Martin hasn’t gone completely soft since Douglas has seen him today, but at barely half mast now it’s the least aroused he’s been. Douglas pulls at his foreskin and lets it slip back, watching as he works. He’s caught a bit by surprise when Martin starts rocking in time with the pulls on his cock. He’s hardly free to move, but he’s clearly getting _something_ out of the rapid, rhythmic flex and release of his arse. His cock surges to full hardness in Douglas’s hand, and pained whimpers are replaced by desperate ones. Martin works himself to a third orgasm almost before Douglas knows what’s happening, but the vice-like clench around his knot as Martin comes is unmistakeable, and it sets off Douglas’s second ejaculation as well.

Martin sags against Douglas chest, mouthing at the base of his neck—idly, at first, and then with greater purpose when he discovers how strong Douglas’s pheromones are at his hairline and behind his ear. This could hardly get any better, as far as Douglas is concerned: the fading tingle of an orgasm, a relaxed Martin in his lap, two tight rings of arsehole and vagina circling his cock, a cloud of Omega scent and sweat and sex in the air. Douglas wraps his arms around Martin and hugs him close.

“Comfortable?”

Martin hums an affirmative.

“Good. That was abso-bloody-lutely fantastic, by the way.”

Martin hums again, then sits back a bit to look Douglas in the eye. “Now what?”

“Whatever you feel like. Just rest a bit, if you–” Douglas breaks off as his third orgasm seizes his attention. His hips rise, and Martin groans at the pressure but doesn’t protest and moves with the motion, truly riding the surge of Douglas’s hips.

When Douglas catches his breath again, he continues. “Just rest, if you like. Or do whatever else you have a mind to, short of trying to separate us. If you’d like a hand,” Douglas looks down to Martin’s cock, still hard but apparently not at all desperate, “just let me know.”

Douglas pulls Martin in with a hand at his nape and licks into his mouth, kissing him deeply until Martin pulls away for air. It’s the sight of Martin, chest heaving, lips puffed and red from Douglas’s kisses that spurs Douglas into another orgasm. Martin rides it out again, steadying himself with his hands on Douglas’s chest.

Even after Douglas relaxes, Martin’s hands remain. He curls his fingers into Douglas’s chest hair and combs through it, down to Douglas’s belly and then over to each side. He plucks at Douglas’s nipples until they stand up into hard nubs for him to roll between his fingertips. Douglas doesn’t try to fake a response that wouldn’t be true, and when Martin looks at him a little questioningly, he explains, “Mine aren’t as sensitive.”

“Because you’re an–”

“Yes,” Douglas confirms. “And also, just…everybody’s different.” Douglas licks the pad of his thumb and then touches it lightly to one of Martin’s nipples to demonstrate. The nipple peaks immediately, and Martin’s cock twitches violently, the motion just visible at the edge of Douglas’s vision. It sparks an idea in Douglas’s mind, and not one there’s any reason to resist. “Let me try something,” he muses, mostly to himself. He leans in to capture Martin’s other nipple in his mouth and then works at both with fingers and tongue and lips and the occasional lightly teasing scrape of teeth, his free hand bracing Martin between the shoulder blades. Martin clutches at the back of Douglas’s head and rocks in his lap. When Douglas feels a hot splash of Martin’s release hit the underside of his chin, he forgives the sharp flash of pain as Martin’s fingers tug in his hair.

“Sorry,” Martin says, unclenching his fingers from Douglas’s hair and petting it down.

“Not at all.”

“That was…”

“What?”

“I didn’t even know it was possible to come without…you know.” Martin gestures crudely, and Douglas chuckles despite himself.

“It’s not possible for everyone, to be sure. But you seem to be _quite_ talented.”

Martin’s face floods with red, and at a glance Douglas notes that his cock has finally softened completely, apparently freeing up the blood for travel elsewhere. Douglas’s knot is still hard as ever, but it feels as though he only has one or two orgasms left to go. The shine on his arousal is fading, rolling out like a low tide.

“I think this knotting is almost over. How are you feeling?”

Martin shrugs. “Fine.”

“Do you think you’d be up for packing a bag?”

“You don’t want to stay here? I know it’s not much–”

“It’s not that.” Douglas takes up Martin’s hand and laces their fingers together. “Well, it is, but not how you’re thinking. My bed is bigger, for one, and it has a nice headboard with good handholds.” Martin blushes again, and Douglas decides not to fight back a leering grin. “Not to mention we’d be able to go back and forth to the loo without worrying about covering up, and I know for a fact my fridge is stocked with enough food for two people for several days.” Douglas had stocked up the day before with two people in mind, in fact, but he chooses not to mention that.

“OK,” Martin concedes, and he bends to kiss Douglas, not breaking the seal of their mouths even when Douglas’s final orgasm threatens to unbalance him.

Douglas grips Martin’s hips firmly until he feels his knot deflate enough for him to pull out without causing Martin discomfort. He grips tightly to the base of the condom and gestures for Martin to climb off, which Martin does with shaking thighs and a shudder, dropping heavily onto his side when he’s free. Douglas ties off the condom and discards it in the bin, then settles next to Martin and reaches to stroke his thumb over one sharp cheekbone.

“All right?”

“I wish you’d stop asking that. I’m not going to _break_ ,” Martin grumbles.

“Sorry.” Douglas kisses Martin’s cheek in penance. Martin sighs and lets his eyes droop closed.

Douglas gives Martin thirty seconds before he pulls at Martin’s wrist. “Come on, _up_ now,” he encourages, but Martin doesn’t react, his arm dead and floppy as a puppet’s. “You need to pack so that we can get going before the next wave hits.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But now, _now_ Martin's struggling—although in all likelihood, _failing_ —to understand that everything before this means nothing. He's not unattractive, in personality or in form; he's just a late bloomer, a delicate hothouse flower coaxed into blossom only under the most precise conditions. And clearly it falls to Douglas to convince him that this is the case.

Martin starts to fidget during the ride over to Douglas’s house. It’s nothing overly obvious, just a restless shifting of his legs and repeated efforts to resettle himself with a motion that rolls him from one hip to the other before he settles back again. Douglas notices out of the corner of his eye and then tells himself, sternly, to keep his eyes on the road. If Martin’s already feeling the beginnings of the second wave, the best thing for him is just to get to Douglas’s as soon as possible. Douglas doesn’t even let himself think about the fact that, enticing as Martin is, he’s not sure _he’s_ quite ready for another round just yet. He’ll manage. He always has.

As it turns out, Martin’s fidgeting wasn’t fidgeting of the oh-God-I-need-an-Alpha-cock-in-my-arse-now variety. It was just fidgeting of the _Martin_ variety, born of uncertainty. This becomes clear when Douglas takes Martin’s bag back to the bedroom. Martin follows a few steps behind but hangs back in the doorway, leaning against the frame and picking at the latch with one finger.

Douglas sets Martin’s bag on a chair next to his dresser and opens it to retrieve the toilet kit he’d watched Martin put together. The kit goes next to the sink in the attached master bath, and then Douglas steps close to Martin, settling a hand at his waist. Martin is fully dressed again—pants, jeans, shirt, jumper—but Douglas can still feel his increased skin temperature through several layers of cloth. Enticing.

“You’re very quiet.”

Martin sighs. “Are you sure I’m not imposing?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Don’t–” Martin huffs, “Just be honest with me. I’m not upsetting any plans?”

“No, you’re not. I’m not sure exactly what you’ve been imagining, but my social life isn’t nearly so scintillating as you seem to think.”

Martin relents, although wariness and uncertainty still bleed from his body language, from the stiffness of his spine and the drawn-up tautness of his shoulders.

“Speaking of schedules, you don’t have any van jobs scheduled for the next two or three days, do you?”

Martin shakes his head. “No, this time of year’s always slow.”

“Well, that’s good, or at least it makes this a bit easier.” Martin nods and accepts Douglas’s kiss when he leans in for one. “Now, let’s see about a late lunch.”

Martin leans on the counter on his elbows and watches Douglas prepare two generously apportioned roast beef and Swiss sandwiches.

“Take those to the table and have a seat while I get drinks,” Douglas suggests. “What do you fancy? Water? Milk? Juice?”

“Juice sounds good.”

“Good. Keep your blood sugar up.” Douglas tries for a leer, but Martin’s not looking at him.

Douglas switches on the television while they eat. If Martin is half so famished as he is, then he’s not going to want to make polite conversation while he eats. And Martin _does_ eat quickly, and he gulps down most of the tall glass of orange juice in one go, licking at the corners of his mouth afterward to get at the clinging remnants of juice.

Martin predictably refuses a second sandwich, but Douglas successfully presses tea and biscuits on him when it appears he really isn’t yet gearing up for another round between the sheets. It’s starting to get a bit odd, but it’s not yet worrisome, especially when Douglas stops to consider that after the trip to St. Petersburg, Martin’s internal clock is already discombobulated. A first heat cycle combined with an uncalibrated Circadian rhythm is only going to increase the unpredictability of Martin’s heat exponentially.

Martin insists on taking their plates and mugs to the sink, and Douglas lets him. His battles must be chosen carefully. And yet– Martin hasn’t just taken the plates and mugs to the sink; he’s filling it with soapy water, by all rights getting ready to do the washing up, and that just won’t do. Douglas touches a hand to Martin’s shoulder first, to alert him of his approach, then slides both arms around Martin’s waist from behind, pressing his cheek to Martin’s temple.

“ _Oh_ ,” Martin breathes. His hands go limp on the edge of the sink.

Douglas lets go with one arm to shut off the water, then wraps Martin up tightly again. “How are you feeling?” he rumbles into Martin’s ear.

“Fine.”

Douglas huffs. “Elaborate, please.”

“I don’t know. Ah– Normal, I suppose.”

“Hmm. What would you like to do, then? Besides the bloody washing up, because _that_ isn’t going to happen.”

Martin wriggles a little in protest, but Douglas calms him by rubbing his sides and nuzzling into his neck.

“Hmm?”

“I don’t know,” Martin growls, frustration coloring his voice.

“Are you tired? You can nap, if you like.”

“No, but maybe–”

“What?”

“I could use a shower, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course I don’t, although–” Douglas dips his head to taste the musk from Martin’s hairline. It’d be a shame to wash the scent away, unless he’s the one doing the washing. “Perhaps a bath? Together?”

Martin accepts the suggestion, but he seems nervous, shifting from foot to foot and toying with the hem of his jumper as Douglas starts the bath water, sitting on the edge of the tub with a hand under the flow until he gets the temperature right. Warm, but not _too_ warm, since Martin’s already giving off heat like a miniature human furnace. Douglas adds a splash of peppermint oil to the water and stands.

“Why don’t you get in,” he suggests. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

The running bath water is surely loud enough, at least from inside the bathroom, to cover the sounds of the washing up, so Douglas takes advantage, giving the lunch dishes a quick wash and rinse and emptying the sink. He gives the bathroom door two gentle raps with his knuckles and waits for Martin’s acknowledgment before pushing the door in. Martin is settled in the bath with his eyes closed, looking not quite relaxed, but certainly more relaxed than he was. It was a good move, Douglas thinks, giving him privacy to undress and get in the tub.

Douglas strips quickly, and then taps Martin on the shoulder.

“Budge up a little.”

Martin opens his eyes and folds himself up immediately, scooting forward to make room in the bath behind him. Douglas climbs in behind him, but Martin doesn’t change position until Douglas pulls at his biceps, tugging him back to settle between Douglas’s legs, laying back on his chest with Douglas’s arms once again wrapped around his middle.

“All–” Douglas stops himself and rearranges his words. “I was just going to ask if this is all right, but as I recall, you aren’t terribly fond of that question, so may I instead ask what your opinion is of your current situation?” Douglas tries to keep his tone lilting and light.

“This is good,” Martin mumbles.

“Good.”

Several minutes pass in silence, only the occasional drip from the tap disturbing the peace. Martin isn’t much inclined to conversation, it would seem, and that’s fine. Predictable, perhaps. Martin’s always been talkative enough on the flight deck, but he tends to the laconic outside of professional contexts, at least when the subject under discussion is not mad clients or aviation (which, granted, usually provide enough conversational fodder to pass the time). And in addition to that—very _much_ in addition to that—it’s only been about twenty-four hours since he discovered he’s not the sex he understood himself to be, not even a sex he knew _existed_ a week ago. And that’s not even the half of it, although that would be enough to keep him understandably silent and brooding.

On top of the rest of it, he woke up this morning as a virgin. A virgin in his _thirties_. Before he succumbed to biological impulse and called Douglas on his mobile at half eleven this morning, he’d never orgasmed in the presence of another person. Probably he’d not even masturbated very often, given that Omegas are known for not having much of a sex drive outside of heat. He may have dated a little, Douglas would hazard a guess, but only out of a sense of feeling like he wasn’t living up to some societal standard of “normality” if he didn’t. Before this morning, he was immature, sexually, because for whatever reason nothing had triggered his first heat before that panicked collection of minutes when he’d had to land GERTI on one engine.

He’d compensated for that immaturity in many ways, not all of them healthy; he had to have. At a guess, he’d convinced himself that his lack of sexual experience was due to some essential lacking in physical attractiveness—his self-consciousness about his less-than-average height the biggest clue—as opposed to a lacking in character and charisma or, in general, likability. In reality, he was lacking in none of these areas, of course, not really. He might come off as a bit obsessive and more than a bit neurotic at first, but, as Douglas can well attest, Martin has a way of getting under one’s skin. Making a home there, even, impossible to expel or forget. He’s determined and resourceful; he possesses wellsprings of integrity the like of which might not exist elsewhere in the natural world. And he rises to the call of emergency with a surprising surety and grace.

But now, _now_ he’s struggling—although in all likelihood, _failing_ —to understand that everything before this means nothing. He’s not unattractive, in personality or in form; he’s just a late bloomer, a delicate hothouse flower coaxed into blossom only under the most precise conditions. And clearly it falls to Douglas to convince him that this is the case.

Without the inhibition-lowering influence of heat-borne desperation, Martin is markedly less comfortable with Douglas. His worries about being an imposition, his attempt at doing the washing up (as if in repayment), his nervousness and reticence before the bath. All explicable, but all groundless, and it falls to Douglas now to disabuse him of such notions. It seems easiest to start with his physical insecurities, so Douglas unwraps one arm from around Martin and slides his hand down to Martin’s lower abdomen, exploring with light touches. Martin tenses when Douglas’s fingers plunge into his pubic hair, but Douglas only waits a few moments and then resumes, carding through the wiry curls before gently lifting Martin’s flaccid cock into his hand. He surveys Martin’s cock thoroughly by touch, but not to arouse, keeping the touch of his fingers deft and tender. Martin sags into his chest again, eventually, and Douglas presses a kiss to his temple in reward.

The next territory for exploration is Martin’s inner thighs, where Douglas’s touch elicits a shiver. Martin cants his legs wider after a few moments, hooking one ankle around the outside of Douglas’s. Douglas accepts the invitation, running both hands down the tops of Martin’s thighs to the knees, then back up and around to the join of thigh and groin. He strokes over the hard lines of Martin’s hip flexors with the pads of his fingertips and lets his fingers dip into Martin’s cleft on occasion. Eventually he stills his hands, leaving them to rest over the crests of Martin’s hipbones.

Martin inhales and exhales deeply, causing a little ripple in the water. “This is nice, but I’m already a prune.”

“Hm. Perhaps just a wash then? I’ll do the honours.”

Martin accepts and laughs when they get a bit tangled when Martin’s trying to dunk his head to rinse out shampoo.

“Your bath is big, but I don’t think it’s quite big enough for _this_.” Martin puts a hand on the edge of the tub and peers over the side. “We’re splashing water _everywhere_.”

“A little water never hurt anything.” Douglas gestures for Martin to scoot back into reach.

“That is just _false_ ,” Martin protests. Douglas soaps up Martin’s back and arms. He keeps his touch firm, so as not to tickle, over Martin’s sides and in his underarms. “‘A little water’ has caused–” Martin starts to continue, but he breaks off when Douglas’s hands travel around to soap his chest and graze his nipples on every stroke.

The rest of the wash passes with only Martin’s gasps and the occasional splash of water breaking the silence. Douglas misses nothing, washing Martin’s cock, foreskin, balls, and cleft just as thoroughly as his feet. When he’s done, he pulls Martin in for a kiss and speaks into his mouth, “The bottom towel there’s for you. Why don’t you get out and start de-pruning while I do myself a quick wash?”

Martin complies, and Douglas tries to strike a balance between concentrating on his own wash and watching Martin, aiming to accustom Martin to his gaze, sexualised or no. Martin retrieves his discarded clothes from the bathroom floor and exits to the bedroom while Douglas is still getting out of the bath, but when Douglas follows, he’s surprised to find him standing over his bag, towel still wrapped around his waist.

“Something wrong?” Douglas asks, letting a hand rest in the curve of Martin’s lower back.

“Not really, or– I don’t know. I don’t really want to put my clothes back on.”

“Oh?” Douglas hadn’t noticed Martin starting to get aroused again just yet.

“My skin feels all…prickly. Jeans don’t sound very nice.”

“Ah, that’s normal. How about just pyjama bottoms and a soft pullover?” Douglas reaches around Martin to retrieve the items from the bag, items he’d made certain got packed.

Martin grumbles to the tune of being perfectly capable of dressing himself when Douglas helps him into the bottoms and pullover, but he leans back when Douglas surrounds him again from behind, burying his nose in Martin’s damp curls.

“You’re–”

“Hmm?” Douglas mumbles.

“This isn’t a complaint, but just– You’re very… _handsy_.”

“That’s instinct, I’m afraid.” And then, because Douglas feels he must: “You are absolutely allowed to complain, you know. If you don’t like anything, just–”

“I know,” Martin cuts him off. “I know. I don’t _not_ like it. I’m just not used to it, really.”

“I know,” Douglas murmurs.

Another cup of tea (and biscuits for Martin) follows, with Douglas and Martin settled side-by-side on the sofa, thighs pressed together. Douglas switches the telly on to QI (a repeat), but he’s more than pleased when Martin slips into a dose against his shoulder, almost giving up his not-quite-empty tea mug in a tumble to the floor. Douglas catches it and manhandles Martin into a more comfortable position for a prolonged nap, curled on his side with his head pillowed in Douglas’s lap.

Douglas dozes off himself, head tipped back, mouth fallen open. He wakes to a darkened room—the winter sun already sunk well below the horizon—startled by the sudden removal of the background noise from the television. Martin’s spot on the sofa is empty.

Martin sets the remote control back on the coffee table, and Douglas isn’t sure which stimulus reaches his brain first, the image of Martin tenting out his pyjama bottoms or the scent of his heat, rich and heady once again.

“Sorry,” Martin starts at a whisper. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You absolutely _should_ wake me, if you’re in need,” Douglas tries to scold, but his yawn in the middle of it spoils the effect somewhat.

Martin shrugs. “It’s not as bad as it was.”

“Regardless.” Douglas stands and tips Martin’s face up for a soft kiss, then pushes him towards the bedroom.

Martin’s skin breaks out into gooseflesh when Douglas tugs his pullover off from behind, and Douglas rubs over Martin’s shoulders and shoulder blades to soothe. He drops to his knees as he begins to drag Martin’s bottoms down, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the centre of one arse cheek, then daring to turn his face and dip his nose just barely between Martin’s arse cheeks, inhaling deeply. So rich and ready, Douglas _longs_ to taste, but Martin clenches his _glutaeus maximus_ at even the hint of it, and it could be reflex, but it’s more likely reticence, and Douglas doesn’t want to push. He leaves a parting peck on Martin’s other arse cheek and turns his attention to easing Martin’s feet out of his bottoms, leaving him completely naked once again.

Martin tries to bat Douglas’s hands away from his buttons.

“I’ve got it.”

“Yes, but I _want_ to,” Martin protests, and Douglas relents. Martin doesn’t really _try_ to arouse Douglas as he strips him; he focuses on the task at hand, but Douglas finds his arousal ratcheting higher and higher at Martin’s tentative touch and, in particular, his pauses to look Douglas in the eye for confirmation before beginning to undo his placket or when he first pushes his fingertips inside the waistband of Douglas’s pants as prelude to pulling them out and down over Douglas’s erection. He wraps one hand around the top of Douglas’s cock, once he has Douglas stripped naked, and just _looks_ at what he has in his hand, the reddened leaking head surrounded by his pale fingers. _That_ drains the last of Douglas’s reserves of patience, and he grabs Martin’s face in both hands to kiss him deeply, walking him backwards until the backs of his knees hit the bed.

Once on the bed, Martin’s hips curl up into Douglas’s, and he wraps his legs around Douglas’s waist without a second of hesitation. Douglas frees a hand and pries Martin’s legs to loosen around his waist so he can reach down to test Martin’s readiness. Martin’s hole is hot and soft under his finger. He’s not as wet as before, but he’s not had hours of frustrated waiting this time. He still feels ready, and he moans into Douglas’s mouth when Douglas twists his finger inside and starts thrusting gently.

Martin breaks away from the kiss and rubs his cheek roughly against Douglas’s. “Douglas, _please_.”

“Certainly. Do you have a particular preference as to position?”

“Can we– _unnng_ ” Martin grunts in protest as Douglas removes his finger, “like this?”

Douglas doesn’t answer in words. He detangles and pulls away from Martin to wrestle on a condom and fetch a firm pillow to prop under Martin’s hips. Next, he arranges Martin’s legs: one over his shoulder, the other hooked over his own elbow at the knee. He presses forward until he can touch the tip of his cock to Martin’s entrance, but he pushes in again with a finger instead.

“ _Douglas_ ,” Martin whines.

“Just a moment,” Douglas promises. He needs to work Martin into producing a bit more lubrication to slick the condom. “Tell me why you want to try this position.”

“I–” Martin starts uncertainly, but his tongue is loosened quickly by the smooth thrusts of Douglas’s finger. “I like having you on top of me, I think. Feels…secure. And I want you to–”

“To what?” Douglas asks, removing his finger and gathering up the fresh heat to spread over the condom.

“To _fuck_ me,” Martin finishes, and his timing is impeccable. Douglas has his cock poised at Martin’s entrance, just barely touching the relaxed hole. He pushes in slowly, watching Martin’s face closely for any sign of discomfort. Martin stops breathing when Douglas is halfway inside, so Douglas stops.

“Breathe,” Douglas insists.

Martin inhales on command and tosses his head from side to side.

“What?”

Martin squirms, and Douglas pushes in another fraction of an inch, an unconscious response to the movement.

“Oh _God_ , I–” Martin reaches for his own cock, turning his head to the side and shutting his eyes tightly. “I have to–”

Before Douglas can even encourage him, Martin is coming, arching off the bed after one twisting pull around the head of his cock. He trembles in the aftermath and doesn’t open his eyes.

Douglas gingerly eases himself the rest of the way in, taking advantage of Martin’s post-orgasmic relaxation. Once he’s sheathed to the hilt, he can lean over to reach Martin’s jaw with his mouth, sucking wet kisses along it over to Martin’s mouth. Martin relaxes slowly, turning to accept Douglas’s kiss, and his eyes are open again when Douglas pulls back.

“ _That_ was _gorgeous_.”

Martin’s hips twitch up at the praise, and Douglas presses down in response. Martin groans.

“Can you…move now?”

“Gladly.”

There’s no need for handholds just yet. Douglas leans his weight on one elbow, pressing it to the bed next to Martin’s shoulder. Martin holds him close with his arms circled around Douglas’s neck and shoulder, and Douglas begins an easy rhythm, pulling out halfway and pushing in until his hips meet the cushion of Martin’s arse. This angle isn’t the best for getting deep; Douglas can only just barely dip the head of his cock past Martin’s vaginal opening, but he keeps reaching for it nevertheless, and the not-quite-satisfying tease of it seems to be doing something for them both. Douglas finds himself struggling to hold back; his hips are convinced that if he would just pound Martin into the mattress, he’d be able to reach into that hidden cavern more fully. And Martin’s breath hitches more times than not, when he feels Douglas push past that opening; he doesn’t have much leverage to maneuver, but he tries to spread his legs wider.

“What was that?” Douglas asks, after Martin grunts something only half-intelligible.

“Harder,” Martin repeats, digging his nails into Douglas’s shoulder to emphasise the point.

“All right,” Douglas concedes, peeling Martin’s hand from his shoulder and guiding it to one of the very convenient horizontal rails of his headboard, “Hang on.” He wraps his own hand around the same bar next to Martin’s and increases the length and force of his thrusts, pulling out until the swollen head of his cock tugs at Martin’s rim and then plunging back in again, producing a loud _slap_ every time his hips meet Martin’s arse. Martin bucks and writhes, which is gratifying but unhelpful, so Douglas leans forward a little more, pinning Martin more securely to the mattress with his not inconsiderable weight. Once he’s thusly pinned and definitely, properly being _fucked_ , Martin seems to relax. He’s still bracing himself against the headboard, but the muscles in his neck lose their tautness, and an expression of beatific enjoyment steals over his face—not that Douglas has much time to appreciate this, in the moment; he’s hurtling full-tilt into a knotting, tingling spikes collecting in his groin and buttocks, seeking an outlet.

With some fumbling, Douglas passes over the duty of holding the leg that’s not over his shoulder to Martin, freeing his own his hand to reach for Martin’s cock, pumping it in time with his thrusts until Martin whimpers and comes, digging his heel into Douglas’s back and clamping down hard around Douglas’s cock. A few more hard thrusts and Douglas feels his own orgasm shooting up from his toes to expand at the base of his cock, locking him steadfast inside Martin’s hot passage. He leans into Martin heavily through his pleasure, hoping in the back of his mind that the pressure isn’t too much, isn’t going to leave bruises.

Douglas collapses over Martin, spent. His head is crooked over Martin’s shoulder, and the smell of Martin’s pheromones is almost overpowering so close. Douglas inhales and feels drunk with it, his head spinning with _Omega_ and _mine_. When he has the strength for it, he turns his head and licks the sweat from Martin’s hairline behind his ear and at the base of his neck. Martin arches his neck, inviting more, and his low groan vibrates straight through Douglas’s skin.

Martin, surprisingly, recovers first. He lets go of the headboard and lets his leg drop to the mattress, then makes a small, unhappy noise when this changes the angle of his hips minutely and causes Douglas’s knot to tug at his entrance.

Douglas takes his weight on one of his elbows to the side of Martin’s head and uses his other arm to guide Martin’s dropped leg around his waist. Martin gets the idea, twining both of his legs around Douglas’s middle and looping his arms around Douglas’s neck. Douglas slowly spreads his own knees a little wider, trying to keep his weight on his elbows as much as possible and endeavouring to stay low and close so as not to cause Martin any discomfort.

Douglas loves kissing Martin at all times, but kissing him at times like these is fast becoming a favourite: when Martin’s sated (at least for the moment) and relaxed, his pale skin glowing with sweat and his expression somehow more _open_. The kisses are unhurried and entirely the opposite of urgent, just the cling of lips and dipping tastes into Martin’s mouth.

When Douglas releases Martin’s mouth and pulls his face back, Martin’s eyes are closed, his lashes resting in delicate arcs on his cheeks. It makes him look young, as young as his newborn sexuality, in fact. Douglas can’t help but touch his forehead to Martin’s and push with his hips as another orgasm rolls through his body, stealing his breath.

Douglas takes a minute to recover, then meets Martin’s gaze—his eyes open now, serious and studious—and lifts his eyebrows inquiringly.

“I like watching you come,” Martin offers.

Douglas groans. “The feeling is entirely mutual, I assure you.”

Martin grins, flashing teeth and impish mischief. He wriggles, arching his belly up into Douglas’s to the extent possible—not far, but far enough for Douglas to feel Martin’s cock, wet with pre-come, rub against his own belly.

“Do you need… _anything_?” Douglas asks. Two can play at this game. If Martin wants help achieving his next orgasm, he’ll have to _ask_ for it.

“Not particularly,” Martin answers. He bucks up against Douglas another half dozen times, graceless as a fish out of water but an endearing sight nevertheless, then reaches a hand down between their bellies to touch himself, making certain his knuckles graze Douglas’s skin at the same time. He comes biting down on his bottom lip, stifling all but the smallest of whimpers, but he’s looking Douglas straight in the eye, so Douglas sees no cause for complaint.

A wrinkle emerges between Martin’s eyebrows after Douglas’s next orgasm.

“Should we try to shift to another position?”

“I don’t know,” Martin answers uncertainly, trailing his fingertips along Douglas’s spine, possibly trying to distract himself from a lingering ache in his arse or elsewhere—his hip flexors must be sore, or his lower back. “How much longer?”

Douglas considers, but it’s too early too tell. “I’m not sure. I think I have a few left in me, I’m afraid.”

Martin stretches his arms above his head, reaching to grab the headboard and pull his arms in a stretch, but his arms aren’t the only part of his body that get stretched. He winces.

“What did you have in mind?”

“The easiest might be for me to roll onto my side,” Douglas offers. “That way at least my weight won’t be on you, but the angle might be even tighter.”

“Can you stay like this?”

“For a while, if you like.”

Martin nods and closes his eyes. Douglas takes his weight back onto one elbow and uses the other for an attempt at comfort. He traces Martin’s collarbone, first, then down his chest to play with a nipple. He keeps the touch gentle, not necessarily aiming to arouse, although it seems to have that effect anyway, as Douglas feels Martin’s cock poking more insistently against his stomach again. After a few minutes, Martin’s made no move to encourage Douglas to touch or to touch himself, so Douglas detours his touch elsewhere. He traces Martin’s ribs and up and down his side with a firm touch. He fans his fingers out over Martin’s belly, feeling every breath as an expansion of warm skin, slightly damp with sweat. He grips Martin’s hip while he redistributes his own weight just slightly, then works his arm under Martin to circle around his lower back, pulling Martin just enough closer to take a bit of the pressure off.

“Better?”

Martin nods, and even more encouraging still, reaches to wedge a hand between them and stroke his own cock. His eyes drift near closed as he works at himself, and Douglas finds himself almost transfixed at the sight. He can’t do much to help, or, rather, he can’t do much more than what he’s already doing—namely, keeping as much of his weight off Martin as possible and supporting his lower back. Martin’s neck might be reachable, and is, in fact, once Douglas bumps Martin’s chin with his nose and Martin sighs and tilts his head back. Douglas licks over Martin’s Adam’s apple and into his jugular notch, and Martin shudders and increases the pace of his hand on his cock. Douglas sucks a path of kisses over to the side of Martin’s neck and grazes his teeth there, which seems to take Martin by surprise. The sudden clench around his cock catapults Douglas over the edge of another orgasm, and out of reflex he bites down on the flesh within reach of his mouth, and Martin gasps Douglas’s name and shudders with his own orgasm, arching his back off the bed and pulling a little too hard at Douglas’s neck.

Martin’s cock wilts to soft; he’s sated for now but still trapped in Douglas’s embrace to wait out Douglas’s knotting. Douglas returns to his original position, crouched with one elbow to either side of Martin’s head, taking the vast majority of his weight on his elbows and knees. The minutes pass in a looping swirl, slowly and then too quickly to recall and slot into order when recollecting the experience later. Martin is mostly still. He closes his eyes and clearly tries to relax, but the fine muscles in his face give away his occasional wince and cringe. He doesn’t even open his eyes once Douglas has started to soften, and Douglas has to bump noses to call him back to the moment.

“Are you awake?”

“Mmmpf,” Martin groans. “No.” He squirms, nearly dislodging Douglas.

“Careful there,” Douglas leans his weight into Martin to still him. “In a moment.”

Martin nods, and his eyes are trusting.

Douglas holds tight to the base of the condom as he withdraws. Much as he’d like to put Martin first, prophylactic measures take _absolute_ priority, and he withdraws to the loo to discard the condom and rinse his cock clean before returning to the bed.

Martin hasn’t moved a muscle; his legs are still splayed obscenely wide. Douglas kneels on the bed next to him and trails a hand from Martin’s chest to hip to knee.

“Slowly,” he cautions, starting to tug on Martin’s knee to draw one leg back in. Martin pulls a face when Douglas guides his other leg in as well, grimacing at the touch of his sticky thighs.

“Do you want to clean up?”

“Yes, _please_ ,” Martin says, but he makes no further move to get up.

“Would you like me to do it then? Or a quick shower?”

The implication that Martin possibly couldn’t handle washing himself gets him out of bed onto shaky legs, Douglas’s hands at his waist to steady him. Douglas picks up Martin’s discarded pyjama bottoms and jumper from the floor and deposits them on the lid of the closed toilet, then intercepts Martin’s hands over the shower taps.

“They’re a bit tricky,” he insists. “Here, let me show you.”

Douglas leans in the doorway, watching Martin’s blurred shape through the shower curtain for longer than he intends. It’s normal, of course, not wanting to let an Omega—he refuses to let himself think _his_ Omega—out of his sight after a knotting, and at the beginning of the heat, in addition. But Douglas only allows himself a pair of such shameful, instinct-driven minutes; after they’ve passed, he shakes himself, pulls on a pair of pants and a T-shirt, then heads for the kitchen.

After that knotting—longer than their first by at least a factor of two, at a guess—Martin both deserves and likely will _need_ a decadent meal. Oil in a pan, hob on high, and two steaks on the counter ready to pat dry and prep with salt and pepper.

The steaks are searing loudly when Martin finds his way to the kitchen. Douglas has one eye on the steaks, but he’s busy rinsing fingerling potatoes and haricot vert at the sink and scarcely has the attention to spare to catch sight of Martin, looking refreshed but still glowing with a fading sex flush.

“Anything I can do to help?” Martin offers.

“Not really,” Douglas answers, and, before Martin can protest: “Hungry?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

Martin eats methodically, clearly savouring, and Douglas lets him keep the topic of conversation to the recent events in St. Petersburg. It hasn’t got old yet, and the sub-topic of Gordon Shappey might never get old. There are so many unknowns: what did Carolyn ever see in him? How exactly did he come to—possibly singularly—occupy the category of “not brilliant” things in Arthur’s mind? Douglas serves Martin a second helping of vegetables without asking, and Martin mumbles his thanks and continues to clean his plate.

Martin’s eyebrows climb up his brow when Douglas clears his plate only to replace it with a new plate of halved figs topped with goat cheese and drizzled with twelve-year barrel-aged Balsamic vinegar, then warmed in the oven.

“Aren’t you having any?” Martin asks. Douglas has pulled his chair closer to Martin’s but hasn’t retrieved a plate of figs for himself.

“We can share.”

Douglas picks up a fig half and guides it not to his own mouth but to Martin’s. Martin frowns, but opens his mouth when Douglas pinches his knee under the table. Douglas feeds Martin three fig halves successfully before an excuse—a dribble of vinegar escaping from the corner of Martin’s mouth—presents itself. Douglas leans in and licks away the stray dribble, then opens Martin’s mouth with his tongue, plunging his fingers into Martin’s still damp curls and pulling Martin’s head closer. Martin moans and chases Douglas’s mouth when Douglas tries to pull away. Douglas lets him have two more deep, searching kisses before he pulls away more firmly and tries to resume the task of feeding Martin the figs. Martin tries to push his hand away.

“Full?”

“ _No_.” Martin’s tone is vexed, frustrated. He shifts his weight as if to get out of his chair, but Douglas stops him with a heavy hand on his shoulder.

“I don’t think you’re ready for another round yet, are you?”

“No.” Martin sags back into his chair, his expression gone from turned on and sexually frustrated to defeated in mere seconds.

“What’s wrong?”

Martin looks away.

“If you tell me, I might be able to do something about it,” Douglas suggests. There’s no use trying to force Martin; he needs to be in control, to choose the path he walks.

“I don’t know if I can explain. It’s just–” Martin pauses, turning back to look Douglas in the eye. “Two more days of this?”

“Yes,” Douglas confirms. “Possibly three.”

Martin chokes back a disbelieving and bitter laugh. “Through the night?”

“Not usually, but–”

“But?” Martin prompts.

“I’m not sure your body really knows what timezone it’s in at present.”

“Just my luck,” Martin sighs.

“Just–” Douglas picks up another fig half and waits for Martin to nod his acquiescence before he guides it into his mouth. “Try not to think about it as a whole. Take it an hour at a time.”

Martin nods and chews and licks his lips to catch the lingering taste of sweet and syrupy vinegar, letting his eyes flutter closed to more fully focus on pure gustatory pleasure. And that’s good enough for now. Perfect, in fact.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again: there will be more. Likely a longer wait this time, however. I have the next chapter planned out, but have not yet actually started writing it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If Douglas is right—and when, really, if Martin is honest about it, has Douglas not been right?—then Martin is a man (or not a _man_ , precisely) capable of getting pregnant, and that implies…well, Martin’s starting to have an idea of _exactly_ what it implies, because it feels awfully open and inviting _there_. It feels awfully and precisely and exactly like the best thing, the most satisfying thing for _that_ would be if there was a cock in it. A very large one, preferably.

Martin didn’t panic. He’d be proud of that later. An engine on fire, a checklist, Mayday, and a landing—all better than he’d ever done it in a sim. The thought even occurred to him after exiting GERTI, upon leaving her disabled carcass behind and returning to Pulkovo’s international terminal: _You earned your stripes today, Martin Crieff. You earned your stripes._

But that calm and self-satisfaction won’t last long. By the time Arthur’s fetched the foulest, tepid approximation of coffee to have ever existed on the planet Earth, Martin is no longer feeling well at all. It’s the crash following the emergency-fuelled adrenaline spike, Martin supposes. It must be the crash that’s making him break out into a cold sweat, his palms and underarms clammy and prickly. It must be the crash that weighs him down, feet like lead. He’s sinking under the weight and floating at the same time. His head feels larger, swollen wide like an inflated balloon. Voices have to travel farther through a cottony fog to reach his ears, although other sounds (Russians shouting at each other, baggage carts, the tannoy) are too loud and make him wince. Martin surprises himself in keeping up his end of a short conversation with Arthur. His own responses feel delayed, like the lag over an old speakerphone, but Arthur doesn’t seem to notice.

The first time Martin has to excuse himself is before lunch. Somehow violently emptying the contents of both his stomach and intestines doesn’t do a thing to stimulate his appetite. He feels Douglas’s eyes on him when he only chooses a bowl of porridge and hardly does more than pick at it. Carolyn is paying, after all. It’s odd for Martin not to take advantage. Silently, Martin wills Douglas not to comment. It’s embarrassing, sicking up just because he’s coming down from a massive adrenaline rush. Unprofessional.

But perhaps it wasn’t the adrenaline rush. Next day is the flight back, and Martin spends more time in the loo than on the flight deck. His bowels simply will not stop moving, and it’s a wonder he has anything left to expel after eating only a few bites of porridge the day before.

Barbed as his tongue can be, Douglas is a good man. He doesn’t call Martin’s condition to any sort of attention. He simply takes control and keeps one eye watchful, but he doesn’t say a word. Martin would be grateful, but with every tiny pitch and yaw in the smallest whorl of turbulence, it’s all he can do to keep from depositing the contents of his stomach all over the instrument panel. Time has never passed more slowly, the seconds stretching, hanging pendulous in the air before each is knocked away by the next with infinite slowness. The minutes turn over with the rolling slowness of the caterpillar treads of a tank—not built for speed, not at all.

The landing is the worst. For the first time in his life, Martin shuts his eyes and misses the magical moment when wheels kiss tarmac and gravity surges back. He’s too busy trying to keep the liquid bile sludge in his stomach from escaping when he’s pressed back into the leather (unpleasantly slick, today) under the force of deceleration.

Martin’s not conscious of the time passing as he waits for the nausea to pass. He breathes shallowly, only sipping at air in an attempt to avoid disturbing any part of his stomach with any motion at all. Douglas’s hand lands heavy on his shoulder, but fortunately it proves distraction enough to force the last clinging remnants of nausea to the back of his mind. Martin rubs at the back of his neck ( _eugh_ , slick with sweat) and takes Douglas’s hand to pull himself to his feet.

Standing is better somehow. Martin deplanes and his worry about his ability to drive himself home dissipates further and further with each step closer to his van. But then, oddly, Douglas is reaching for him and a confusing conversation ends with Douglas’s low command: “We need to talk.”

The conversation does not go well; Douglas has never _ever_ before stooped as low as this. The door is a hard pressure against Martin’s spine, and he pulls his knees to his chest and presses his palms over his eyes and tries to force back the tears that are rising as a bloated bulge in his throat. Douglas is saying something through the door, but Martin only catches “call me” and thinks about smashing his mobile into bits, grinding the pieces into the floor with his heel to avoid calling Douglas Richardson after he’s pulled a trick as cruel as _this_. Men up the duff! Delivering babies _from their arses_. Worse than Douglas’s usual bollocks, worse than rubbish. There aren’t words strong enough for such vile, evil, manipulative drivel.

* * *

The incontinence and nausea are passed by the time Martin turns in for the night. He turns in early, exhausted from over twenty-four hours of near constant need to void himself. There hadn’t been much chance of sleep the night before; he’d spent the night on the wet, mildewed tile of a Russian hotel bathroom (Why does no one outside of Britain or America believe in shower curtains? _Why?_ ) with breaks only to hunch over the toilet for one reason or the other.

So back in Fitton, Martin turns in early after half a bottle of Lucozade stays down for an hour and shows no signs of coming back up again. He’s wrung out, his limbs dragging with exhaustion. Even his anger at Douglas has faded and dimmed under the heavy weight of fatigue. The strange conversation is a distant, dream-like memory when he drifts off to sleep.

He wakes in the middle of the night—not unusual, when he’s crossed so many timezones in not so many days. But as soon as he stands, it’s apparent: this is different. He feels hollowed-out, light and empty, his skin a drum-tight cover stretched over bone. He’s particularly conscious of the forward jut of his hips, of their wide open flare. He feels _empty_ there, in his pelvis, but not in any way he’s used to. His bladder is full, even; it’s not that. He stumbles to the loo, and when he takes himself in hand to urinate, he shudders with pleasure. _That’s_ unusual too, at least for him.

Martin curls on his side in bed, staring at the yellow square on the wall illuminated by the street lamp’s glow through his single small window. He’s not particularly sleepy now that he’s woken, but he should still _try_ to get some sleep. Surely he needs it. And surely it _isn’t_ the best use of his time to slip his hand inside the waistband of his pyjama bottoms and curl his hand around his cock, not hard but not exactly flaccid. It’s warm under his hand, and it feels good just to hold it. If he squeezes oh-so-lightly, sparks zing up his spine, but there’s no sense of wanting more than this.

In the morning, Martin wakes to the throb between his legs. His hand is still in his bottoms, and it’s not really a conscious decision to take himself back in hand, pulling out two long strokes before he kicks the sheets off and shoves his bottoms down to his knees and _looks_. His cock has never been this hard, never this dark, never this wet, leaking copious amounts of pre-come. For Christ’s sake, it even feels like it’s dripped down _there_ ; there’s a sensation of wet slickness in his cleft between his arse cheeks.

Given the choice between rubbing one out here and now or making his way to the shared loo with such an obvious hard-on, Martin chooses the former, despite the impression it gives of decadent overindulgence and perhaps a certain lacking in self-discipline. At first it feels like every stroke might push him over the edge, but none of them does, and there’s a growing sense of something missing. Martin shifts his hips and legs restlessly, seeking aimlessly for _more_.

A rush of hot wetness spilling between his arse cheeks kills Martin’s mood, if not his erection. It appears it’s not his cock that caused the wetness _there_ , or at least not only his cock. Martin clenches his buttocks and feels slickness (and also an unexpected but undeniable pleasure when he squeezes tightly). His mouth twists in a grimace and doesn’t relax as he tips his hips up and tentatively reaches his index finger down to trail through the slippery discharge. The fact that the discharge is clear is an immediate relief. With his mouth still twisted and tense, he brings his finger close to his nose to sniff. Relief again: it doesn’t smell fecal in the slightest; it smells very similar to the wetness leaking from his cock, perhaps a bit tangier. Martin rubs his index finger and thumb together, and it slips with almost no friction at all. Understanding dawns: it’s _lubrication_.

Even alone, Martin’s face heats uncontrollably in a blush at the implication, but he reaches back down again and tentatively touches his hole. It feels soft—softer than Martin might have expected—and it’s very warm, hot and slightly puffy with the blood of arousal. When he pushes experimentally, his finger slips right in, right down to the second knuckle. It’s strange, but not in a terribly unexpected way. It feels just about how Martin would have imagined sticking a finger in your own arse would feel: odd, dirty.

What _is_ strange is the compulsion to push his finger farther in. He spreads his knees wider and tilts his hips higher and pushes his finger in all the way to the root, and _that_ is different. Weird recedes in favor of _incredible_. Martin tries to push farther in, and he can feel himself clenching around the base of his finger, arousal spiking through his dick and in his balls. And well, God gave him _two_ hands for a reason. He reaches for his cock, tugging at it clumsily since he’s not particularly ambidextrous. His heels threaten to slip on the sheets as he pumps his hips up onto his finger. He’s getting so close, if only he could reach a little deeper, but he _can’t_. He’s pressing his knuckles hard into his arse around his hole, trying to reach deep, and then the thoughts occurs: if not deeper, then _more_. Two fingers are much better than one, even if he still can’t get deep enough. The stretch of two is only a mild discomfort for half a second before it turns into pleasantly full and finally into _not enough_. He spreads his fingers a little, prying open his rim, and that stretch is sharp and satisfying. His cock twitches and throbs and a final tight squeeze around the head of his cock is just what it takes for him to come, shooting a hot pool onto his stomach.

Heart pounding, breathing in gulps, Martin collapses onto the bed, his heels slipping out from under him, his fingers slipping out of his arse, which is now twitching with aftershocks and oversensitive.

Martin’s cock doesn’t soften. He cleans up as best he can with a couple of tissues (still no question of making a trip to the loo in this state, not at this hour when all the students are banging about getting ready for the day). He waits. His cock still doesn’t get soft, and possibly just because he has nothing else to focus on, he feels arousal stirring again in his balls (and, to be honest, his arse). He wanks again. Twice.

Three and a half hours of masturbating furiously but staying rock hard. Just shy of “Call your doctor if…” territory, but even so, Martin _knows_ that that’s not the next step, in any case. He’d been furious the night before, but he hadn’t completely tuned Douglas out. “Call me when you have questions,” he’d said. And _fucking hell_ does Martin have questions.

Martin fights the impulse for another hour before he calls. Because he’s still angry. Because he’s starting to inuit a bit of what might be going on. Or, not _intuit_ , perhaps, but _believe_. If Douglas is right—and when, really, if Martin is honest about it, has Douglas not been right?—then Martin is a man (or not a _man_ , precisely) capable of getting pregnant, and that implies…well, Martin’s starting to have an idea of _exactly_ what it implies, because it feels awfully open and inviting _there_. It feels awfully and precisely and exactly like the best thing, the most satisfying thing for _that_ would be if there was a cock in it. A very large one, preferably.

And lastly—but by no means is this the least of Martin’s concerns—it’s _Douglas_. Douglas who is his best friend and possibly one of the only people who seems to care about him by choice, not because he has to. Family have to. Carolyn has to, in a sense, because she’s never going to find another pilot who’ll work for free, so she has a vested interest in his well-being so far as it extends to his ability to pilot an aeroplane. Arthur doesn’t count not because he has no choice but because he loves _everyone_.

But Douglas: Douglas is choosy about the people he does or does not care for. He doesn’t care for Herc, for example, and makes that dislike abundantly clear. His hatred for Gordon Shappey goes above and beyond his duty to Carolyn. But while he ribs Martin and occasionally makes a sport of riling him up until he’s spluttering with frustration, Douglas does _care_. And that’s not just an inference from his behavior. Douglas _told_ him, once.

Marseilles. Summer, late in the evening, the sun gone down but the air still warm and sea-scented. Carolyn had consented to be dragged off to some sort of pastry shop by Arthur, and Douglas and Martin were left to make their own way back to the hotel after dinner.

Douglas purposely got them “lost”; Martin realises that now. He might not have much ( _any_ ) experience, but he’s not an idiot or a hopeless naïf. _Of course_ Douglas got them conveniently lost along a dark and romantic seaside boardwalk, where there weren’t many other people and those few they came across were only couples (presumably to set the mood). Douglas didn’t say anything until after he’d kissed Martin, naturally. Douglas’s style is absolutely act first, explain later. So he’d turned into Martin’s side, both of them standing at a rail at the edge of the boardwalk, gazing out at the disgustingly romantic tableau of marina-moored sailboats floating at rest and moonlit water shivering with cool, bright ripples. He’d turned into Martin’s side and brushed his fingers over Martin’s jaw and cheek before settling his palm on Martin’s nape, pushing his fingers into the short hairs where the back of Martin’s head sloped into his neck and leaning in to touch his lips to Martin’s, far more gently and sweetly than Martin likely would have speculated. Not that he’d thought about such things; he really hadn’t. And that was the problem, actually. As nice as it was, what the _hell_ was it?

It wasn’t something in the category of things-Martin-wants-but-hasn’t-got. That category was large, _very_ large, but it was shockingly devoid of kisses and touches and sex. Those were things other people wanted, and although on occasion Martin felt a bit self-conscious about his own lack of wanting (because it marked him as strange and different, even abnormal), it was pretty difficult to sustain any sort of insecurity about not wanting to want things that other people want but that he seemed to have very little chance of getting, especially when there were (are) so many other things he _did_ want and seemed to have little chance of getting (a paid piloting job, a house, only _one_ job, companionship in the form of friends that weren’t just friendly colleagues).

So Martin didn’t know what to do, being kissed by Douglas. Douglas was warm, and the rasp of his five o’clock shadow was a delicious contrast to the softness of his lips, and he smelled, well, like _himself_ , actually, but it was stronger up close and a little overwhelming. And the all of it together—lips, hand, smell, breath—was definitely overwhelming. It wasn’t just the shock and the fact that he and Carolyn had split a bottle of wine over dinner. When Douglas withdrew, Martin felt himself rearing back, heard himself stutter “What– What was–?”

“A kiss.”

Martin rolled his eyes. “Why?”

Douglas touched him again. The same hand, but now at his waist, his thumb rubbing at the top of Martin’s waistband.

“Because I wanted to. Because I’ve wanted to for quite a long while, actually, ever since you delivered a bottle of brown sauce to my house, and I realised that I was no longer very interested in the person for whom that bottle was intended.”

“But–”

“And it didn’t help, of course, how she reacted to the little revelation your appearance engendered.”

Martin frowned. Even more unexpected than Douglas kissing him was Douglas revealing that he’d been…what? _pining_ for Martin? Surely not.

“I may be misremembering, you realise. It probably was more on the order of my ex-wife cheating on me and _then_ realising that I was falling for my closest colleague. Everything looks pre-destined in hindsight, but nothing ever is.” Douglas drops his hand from Martin’s waist and turns back to the sea. “But enough about me. I wanted to kiss you, so I did. What about you?”

Martin didn’t know what to say, but he had to think of _something_. There was just too much to explain. _I didn’t want to, but not because I didn’t want to, but because I’ve never wanted to, never even thought about it, and I know that makes me strange, but you already knew that, surely, and I kind of liked it because it was different than what I would have imagined if I’d ever bothered to imagine such things, but I haven’t ever bothered. I think I might like it if you’d kiss me again, but the idea of sex terrifies me, and that has to be where this is going, hasn’t it?_ No, not quite on, unloading all that. Douglas wouldn’t know the first thing to do with all of that, or—an even worse possibility—he _would_ : he’d _laugh_.

When Douglas’s hand landed on Martin’s shoulder a moment later, Martin shrugged it off immediately, startled. “Sorry,” Martin cringed.

“No, I am. Let me– I imagine–” Douglas paused for a breath and started again, speaking slowly and carefully. “I imagine you don’t know what to say to me because you don’t feel the same way.”

“Um, I–”

Douglas arched an eyebrow.

“Yes, you’re right, I suppose.”

Douglas sighed. He shifted down to rest his elbows on the rail, his shoulders tight and hunched. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make things awkward between us.”

“It’s fine. You haven’t.” _I wish I felt the way you do._

So now it’s a bit of a sticky wicket. Douglas told Martin to call, Martin suspects Douglas would be quite willing to stick his cock in Martin’s arse, now that that’s something Martin wants (or, really, is _desperate_ for), but it could be unfair, Martin calling him for this purpose, just to relieve a need. It’s impossible to think beyond that need right now to consider whether or not Martin just might find himself harbouring feelings for Douglas. He’s always _liked_ him, of course, but where is that line between platonic and…not? He wants to kiss Douglas again, yes definitely that, but not like before, not gentle sweet shallow kisses. He wants to taste Douglas and open his mouth and let Douglas taste him swallow him consume him, sucking and biting at his lips and plunging his tongue as deep as he can. In short: the fog of arousal obscures all of Martin’s thoughts on the subject of his relationship with Douglas Richardson, which means, sadly, that he has no business calling him over when he doesn’t know what he’s offering.

But he does call. He can’t _not_ , in the end. He’s so _empty_. The emptiness has hollowed him out and eroded his self-control, and he’s reaching for his mobile before he can stop himself.

* * *

The fog lifts once Douglas arrives. Douglas the Alpha. Alpha Douglas. It’s obvious when he walks in the room that he is what Martin needs, and it’s gut-wrenchingly obvious when he drops a tied-off sack onto the bed full of “aids” that Douglas is a very, very good man. _I could spend the rest of my life with him_ , Martin thinks suddenly, and that’s, well, not very platonic. Perhaps all that was needed for Martin to know his own feelings was to be presented with the object of them so that he could examine their shape and direction in context.

Once he’s sure himself, it’s surprisingly easy to persuade Douglas. Desperate and ragingly aroused as he is, the old nerves (terror) come back when Douglas grips his jaw and asks him to confirm point blank that he hasn’t any sexual experience to speak of. God, he _needs_ it now, and he thought that his desperate need had overpowered his insecurity, but Douglas seems to have found the one way to bolster it back up and turn Martin from desperate to unpleasantly frantic and skittish.

Douglas says it’s fine, understandable ( _What does he mean by that?_ Martin wonders) and kisses him, and Martin feels the insecurity dissolve again, disappearing in the flood of want that pushes his hips forward so that he can grind his cock, still so hard, into Douglas’s thigh.

Thank God Douglas decides to have mercy because Martin couldn’t have lasted much longer. As it is, he’s so overcome with need-want- _need_ that when Douglas sits him on the edge of the bed and kneels between his knees, it’s like he’s watching from the corner of the room. He simply can’t quite reconcile his mind with the fact of being the person whose rock hard cock is surrounded by Douglas’s hot mouth. The sensitive tip of his penis bumps into Douglas’s soft palate; he can feel it twitch and convulse as Douglas gags just slightly and then recovers. Just the heat and warm slick wetness would be plenty enough, but then Douglas’s fingers are moving too, trailing to that place that feels cavernous and hollow and empty.

“I’m going to use a finger to open you up a bit,” Douglas had said, and just those words— _Jesus_ , those words—had almost made Martin come. He wants to be opened, wants to swallow Douglas up. He’d prefer a nice big cock to a finger, but if a finger is all that’s being offered, then that will do.

It doesn’t even register as strange when Douglas first touches his fingertip to Martin’s hole. Martin reacts; he can feel his opening fluttering involuntarily, reaching and seeking and blindly attempting to draw in. Douglas’s pushing _just_ inside, just enough for Martin’s hole to grasp and hold onto, drives Martin near to madness. He tries to shift his hips to draw Douglas’s finger in, but Douglas has got him neatly pinned with his forearm braced over Martin’s lower abdominals.

Finally, _finally_ Douglas slides his finger _in_ , and it’s like he’s set off some kind of switch inside. A tingling flood of pleasure explodes from Martin’s arse outwards, down to his toes and out the tip of his cock as he comes right into Douglas’s mouth. The stab of shame and fear that he’s done something terribly wrong coming into Douglas’s mouth is unwelcome, and it steals away the fading glow of his orgasm, but before he can stutter out an apology he notices that Douglas doesn’t seem concerned. He still suckling around Martin’s cock lightly, and he runs his tongue in gentle circles around the head when he pulls his mouth off; it almost seems like he’s _trying_ to get every drop.

It was going to be an awkward conversation anyway, so the fact that Martin and Douglas have their discussion about Martin’s newly discovered biological features while Martin is naked, still hard, and has his legs spread obscenely with one draped over both of Douglas’s so that Douglas can keep his middle finger buried deep in Martin’s arse—well, perhaps that’s not the strangest part of the situation after all. It’s frustrating that Douglas is still clothed. He smells tantalisingly good, but Martin can only get hints of it through the broadcloth of his shirt and can’t smell his sexual arousal at all, although Douglas’s erection is exceedingly obvious, trapped in his trousers.

Martin’s lower half has a mind of its own now, it would seem. He gets desperate, _so_ desperate, and his hips start pumping in quick little thrusts while he clutches to Douglas’s shirt, sticking his fingers between the buttons to find Douglas’s skin. After a minute, a fresh spill of slickness floods from his arse in a hot (and, honestly, wonderful) rush, and then he’s able to quiet his hips again and concentrate a bit more on what Douglas is saying.

Douglas asks him to help hold his legs as wide apart as possible so that Douglas can try to reach his vagina (his _vagina_!) to show him where it is, and Martin tucks his hand into the pit of his knee and pulls his top leg as wide as he can. The stretch is incredible; it distracts, for a moment, from the slight discomfort of Douglas’s hard pushing and seeking finger and hand, but there can’t be any distraction from the moment when Douglas catches his internal rim and pushes it just slightly. Just having that touched is almost like an orgasm. The pleasure of it rolls out through his whole body from that spot, and a rush of slippery heat follows and tips Martin over the edge: he can’t take this anymore, being empty _there_ when Douglas’s cock is _here_ and hard, under Martin’s fingers now as he scrabbles to undo Douglas’s button and zip.

Douglas is _huge_. Not that Martin has any experience of these things, but Douglas’s cock is easily twice the size of Martin’s, in both length and girth. It’s very darkly flushed and very straight and completely defies gravity in the way that it juts up insistently, almost straight up against Douglas’s stomach. There’s a ring of skin around the base that actually looks a little lighter, and Martin realises that this must be the extra layer of skin that will fill and swell into Douglas’s knot.

Douglas pulls Martin into his lap, which is not exactly how Martin imagined this going. In those hours of determined wanking and even more determined _not calling Douglas_ he’d thought about Douglas on top of him, his weight pinning Martin to the mattress, not like a trap but a tether to keep him from floating away on the waves and eddies of helpless arousal. Douglas isn’t going to let him have that yet, and Martin is too desperate to protest.

When Douglas reaches between Martin’s legs to gather up slick for the condom, Martin feels another wet rush spill out, hot as it drips down his thighs (what’s left of it, that is, after Douglas gathers up what he needs).

Douglas nestles his cock between Martin’s arse cheeks and pushes the tip of it just against Martin’s hole, and he’s talking, but Martin isn’t listening. Instinct takes over. He bears down to open up the muscles, and he can feel every millimetre of Douglas’s cock as he takes it in. He looks down to _see_ , but he can’t. When the entire head of Douglas’s cock pops all the way past his sphincter muscles, Martin feels like the floor’s dropped out from underneath him. His knees and thighs turn to jelly and fall further apart. Douglas’s cock slides in another several inches because there’s nothing to stop it, nothing until Martin can muster back enough control of his trembling thighs to stop and adjust.

Douglas wants to know what it’s like, so Martin tells him, thankfully managing to keep it simpler than _You’re inside me, filling me up and taking away the emptiness, and_ oh God _I want more of it, but I’m also a little afraid that it will be too much because it’s so much already. It aches. You’re pulling me apart from the inside, and I’d let you pin me down and push all the way in even if it hurt, but I’m not sure I can get there on my own from this position. I’ve never been very brave, just determined, but cautiously determined._

The slightly rough skin of Douglas’s palm closes around his cock, pulling steadily with a bit of a twist at the top, and it’s ten thousand times better than it’s ever been before when Martin has touched himself. He sinks down another inch on Douglas’s cock before he can persuade his thigh muscles to return to action, and even then it’s not long before his orgasm takes everything away again and he sinks all the way down onto Douglas’s cock.

It’s too much. The head of Douglas’s cock forces its way up past the tight little ring Douglas had only managed to graze with his finger earlier when he was showing Martin where it was. It doesn’t want to admit Douglas’s cock, but gravity can’t be argued with, and Douglas’s cock head forces the ring of muscle to yield and open. Martin collapses with the shock of it. His vagina is twitching with alternating jolts of stinging pain and piercing pleasure where Douglas’s cock head touches places that have never been touched before.

Douglas lifts Martin’s hips to help. He pulls his cock head out of Martin’s vagina, but the tug as the flared head catches on the internal rim is another jolt of pain, and Martin can’t do anything but breathe and wait for the pain to subside while Douglas grips his arse firmly, holding him up. Even as he’s waiting for the sting to fade, the discomfort of emptiness and not being quite as full as he knows he can be claw their way again to the front of his mind, demanding attention.

“Tell me what you need,” Douglas demands, and Martin can’t think of anything to say, so he just spreads his thighs as wide as he can and sinks himself back down. It’s better and worse the second time: more than a little sore as the widest part of Douglas’s cock head breaches the opening, but the reward is worth it—a fresh outpouring of heat and a buzzing sort of feeling gathering in his pelvis, spurring him to motion.

“ _Fuck_ , that’s–” Martin tries, but gives up. Douglas takes over, takes control of Martin’s hips with his hands, working them in a slow shallow rhythm that continues to skirt the edge of pain—not really pain, just discomfort, and it’s addictive like the compulsion to pick at a hangnail or poke one’s tongue at a mouth sore from accidentally biting one’s own cheek.

Douglas is unreasonably content with slow and shallow, so Martin takes over when he finds the strength. Half off, then sinking back down until the base of Douglas’s cock is stretching at his hole and his cock head inside is filling Martin’s emptiest place.

Then Douglas grabs Martin’s hips on a downstroke and holds Martin down while he grinds up, and _that’s_ definitely what Martin wants more of, so he’s tells Douglas so.

The knotting is the point when the rest of it starts to blend together. It’s too huge a thing—literally—to cope with in the moment. The stretch and burn and the security of fullness, an unexpected security unlike any small sense of security Martin’s ever felt before. For instance, this feels satisfying on a level a meal out (a treat: from Douglas, occasionally; from Carolyn, very rarely) never has even when he’s been stretching his pounds to cover van maintenance and rent and just enough pot noodle and packet rice to get by. Douglas’s hands are everywhere, almost too much, touching Martin’s sides and hips and belly and chest. Martin doesn’t relax under Douglas’s hands, but slowly he becomes aware of the tense clench of his muscles, the breath stopped in his lungs, his eyes shut against the world. He breathes first and shudders on the exhale, trying to force relaxation, starting with his arse.

It’s better, not worse, once he’s relaxed around Douglas’s cock and knot. If he leans back a little, the head of Douglas’s cock presses up against his vaginal walls in a place that causes his whole pelvis to flood with pleasure. And then Douglas starts playing with his foreskin, and Martin can’t hold back. Carefully, gingerly he starts rocking on Douglas’s knot, just enough to keep nudging the sensitive ring of his vaginal opening and that spot inside, and he collapses into Douglas’s chest when he comes in a long rolling wave that leaves him with pleasantly glowing tingles in his legs for minutes.

Three discoveries mark out the remainder and conclusion of Martin’s first knotting: Douglas tastes amazing, especially just behind his ear and at his hairline; some people—Martin included, apparently—can come just from nipple stimulation alone; and the final removal of Douglas’s cock is a terrible loss that immediately makes Martin feel empty, insecure, and defensive. After he’s snapped at Douglas for asking after his well-being, Martin just wants to crawl back onto Douglas’s lap, sit on his cock, and fall asleep on his chest. Instead, he packs a bag.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter four is coming right along. I was going to post three and four together, since three isn't really a lot of _new_ material, strictly speaking, but four still has a bit to go, and I was editing this and reminded how much fun it was to write some solo Martin, so I decided I'd go ahead and put it up.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The remainder of the day is a roulette of sex, a sampler of positions from one of those cheesy decks of “spice up your sex life” cards sold at adult shops with names like _Intimate Occasions_ or _Fun after Dark_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning:** Anyone who has squicks about some of the directions Omegaverse can go should click [here](http://peg.gd/3r4) for a (spoiler-y) disclaimer regarding precisely which direction(s) this story will and (perhaps more important) _won’t_ take.

In this particular instance, Douglas is thankful to be a light sleeper. He wakes to Martin’s pillow-muffled whimpering, and before he even slides across the mattress to Martin—Martin had (understandably) rejected sleeping cuddled together in favor of cool, sweat-wicking sheets on his bare skin—he shucks his pants and gives his cock a couple of tight strokes, although it’s already well on the way to fully hard. It’s stiff enough to get the condom on, at least. And the condom is most definitely necessary; there’s really only one possible cause for Martin’s distress.

There is a dilemma, however, as Douglas discovers after sliding close up behind Martin: Martin is still asleep. He’s definitely ready for another round; his ready scent surrounds him like a cotton candy cloud, melting pleasantly in Douglas’s nostrils and triggering a swell of helpless affection.

Wake Martin or not? If Douglas doesn’t, there’s no telling how intense Martin’s desperation might be by the time he wakes naturally. But: he certainly needs the sleep, and he’s not actually aware of his own discomfort at the moment since he’s lost to the world of dreams. Or, Douglas reconsiders, he might be, if he’s dreaming somewhat lucidly, which he very well may be, as he’s not likely to be sleeping very deeply.

Douglas slides a hand over Martin’s hip and presses it flat to Martin’s stomach, feeling him breathe. He curls up close behind Martin, letting his cock find its own way (as is its wont) to nestle between Martin’s arse cheeks and dip into the gathered heat slick there. Martin quiets at the touch but doesn’t wake, so Douglas slides his hand up farther to tweak first one nipple with his thumb, then the other with two fingers. Martin’s breath hitches, he grunts, and finally he wakes.

“ _Douglas_.”

Douglas rubs Martin’s nipple in answer, and Martin pushes his hips back and groans, his voice gravelly with sleep.

“Douglas, put it _in_.” He reaches back to grab at Douglas, eventually blindly finding his hip to grab onto. He slides his top leg forward, causing Douglas’s cock to slip forward to nudge at the back of his balls. Douglas pushes into the new position, pushing at Martin’s perineum and balls, rubbing his cock back and forth in quick strokes that he can’t control.

Martin’s nails are a sharp pain in the tender skin of his side above his hip, shocking him out of his desperate frotting.

“What was that for?”

“Put it _in_ ,” Martin demands, rolling half onto his stomach and spreading his legs wider.

Douglas obeys. (How could he not?) He pushes the head of his cock just inside the yielding rim of Martin’s hole, and Martin grunts and squirms, canting his hips up and back to take in more. Douglas slides in the rest of the way and gathers Martin in close. He presses his chest to the hot skin of Martin’s back and kisses Martin’s cheek. Martin twists, seeking Douglas’s lips. He nips at Douglas’s bottom lip and gets distracted tonguing the hurt away, moaning when Douglas slips his arm under Martin’s neck to brace him for a deep kiss.

Douglas pumps his hips, starting with short, quick thrusts until he’s absolutely certain Martin is ready for more. When he lengthens his strokes, Martin reaches down to grip his own cock, holding the head while Douglas clutches at his hip and drives into him, his hips slapping against Martin’s arse with every thrust. Martin comes silently, apparently just from squeezing lightly around the head of his cock. Douglas presses into him as deep as he can as Martin arches and shudders, and Martin’s vaginal opening tightens around the head of Douglas’s cock, making his the groan that fills the silent bedroom.

Martin doesn’t come again before Douglas knots him, but he does just after, shivering as Douglas teases his orgasm out by rubbing lightly all around the head of his cock.

Two orgasms are all Martin can manage in the middle of the night, apparently, and Douglas suspects he’s nodded off before Douglas’s knot deflates and he eases himself out gently. Martin protests the withdrawal with a tiny whimper, and Douglas pats his hip to soothe before retreating to take care of the condom. When he pushes a warm and wet flannel between Martin’s thighs, even in sleep (or half-sleep, it’s hard to tell) Martin spreads his legs and pushes into the touch, catlike and unselfconscious. Douglas leaves the sheets off Martin and settles behind him, not touching but close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body and close enough to smell Martin (and smell himself on Martin, their scents mixing in a fashion entirely the opposite of unpleasant).

Douglas wakes to the same scent, the top notes of Martin’s musk stronger as his heat builds again in another wave. The room is still dim, but the stitches in the heavy curtains at the window are bright pinpricks of light betraying the sunny day just dawned outside. Douglas smiles to himself and scratches at his chest, moving his hand gradually lower to grip his cock briefly, running his palm from root to tip intending to calm, to bring down from half-hard to fully soft, as Martin appears to be sleeping deeply at long last, and that means a chance at breakfast.

The kitchen windows have no curtains. The sun streams through brightly, and Douglas whistles softly as he fries up eggs and tomatoes and rashers and sets the coffee machine to work. He’s always liked mornings, so rich with possibility, the whole day stretched out ahead. And this particular day with the promise of an Omega in heat to feed and fuck and hold and bathe.

Douglas juggles two full plates and two mugs of coffee into the bedroom, only realising how daft that is when he arrives and has nowhere to put the plates but the bedside cabinet and the chair that serves more as a clothes rack than a seat. Martin’s stirring, knuckling his eyes, and he’s pulled the sheet up to his waist. Douglas perches on the edge of the bed with his coffee and hands Martin the other mug. Martin sips dutifully, but he doesn’t say a word, and he doesn’t look Douglas in the eye. In fact, his gaze seems to be rather drawn to Douglas’s _lap_.

“Not hungry?” Douglas asks.

“No. I mean, yes, actually, but also no. Not at the moment.”

“You’d rather–” Douglas leaves the question in the air, but he reaches for Martin’s half-full mug, and Martin releases it to him. Hands free, he kicks the sheet down and settles on his knees, reaching for the headboard with one hand even as he twists to look behind him, fixing Douglas in his gaze. The clear implication sends blood rushing to fill Douglas’s cock.

“This is what you want? Before breakfast?”

“This is what I want _for_ breakfast,” Martin corrects.

“Oh, cheeky this morning, are you?” Douglas teases, stretching a condom over his cock and settling into place behind Martin.

Douglas works his own knees between Martin’s, nudging Martin’s into a wide straddle. Martin leans forward to grip the headboard with both hands and take the weight off his straining hip flexors while Douglas cups Martin’s arse cheeks, just letting his little fingers slide into the cleft as he kneads and appreciates. (Martin has a truly glorious arse, round and firm with a downy cover of fine hairs.)

Martin mutely pushes his arse back into Douglas’s grip in a demand for more, and Douglas leans over to taste the skin between Martin’s shoulder blades while he pushes two fingers into Martin’s hole to test its readiness—hot and soft and slick, _beyond_ ready, really—and gather up slick to cover the condom. He pushes into Martin with one hard thrust, and Martin’s knuckles go white around the headboard and his ribcage inflates with a breath that he doesn’t release until Douglas drags his mouth up to the nape of Martin’s neck and licks up the just-bloomed sweat there as he begins to fuck Martin, pumping his hips into Martin’s arse with smooth, driving thrusts.

This position has always been a favourite for Douglas. The angle makes it easy to get deep; with every thrust his cock head slips inside Martin’s vagina and pushes against its walls. And he has easy access to Martin. He can sit up straight and reach around to hold Martin’s inner thighs (already spread wide) while he grinds as deep as he can inside. Or he can lean over and tuck his chin over Martin’s shoulder, the smell of Martin’s heat pheromones rich in his nose and the entirety of Martin’s chest and groin reachable by his hands. He pinches Martin’s nipples and picks up the pace, fucking Martin hard and fast and only slowing down a little when Martin arches and comes.

Douglas catches the last spurt of Martin’s ejaculation in his hand and then wraps it around Martin’s cock, whispering into Martin’s ear when Martin grunts at the overstimulation, “I’ll be gentle, I promise.” His strokes are light but insistent, and Douglas puts his back into the task of fucking Martin as hard he can and cheers inwardly when Martin starts to whine his name and then comes again not three minutes after his last orgasm, his come a hot spill over Douglas’s fingers. Douglas lets go of Martin’s cock and sits back, pulling Martin back to sit in his lap, Douglas’s arms circled around his chest and waist, Douglas’s cock still a huge, insistent presence in Martin’s arse but only rocking in and out with nudging pushes while Martin recovers from two orgasms in such a short span of time.

When Martin leans forward and grabs for the headboard again, Douglas nudges his knees open to their widest splay and looks down to watch his own cock as he holds Martin by the hips and returns the pace to fast, hard thrusts.

Douglas settles Martin back into his lap when he’s knotted him, and he lavishes attention on Martin’s nipples and cock, watching over Martin’s shoulder as his touch provokes a startled indrawn breath or a sudden pleasure-driven clench of Martin’s abdominal muscles. Douglas wraps both hands around Martin’s slippery hot cock, wishing he could taste it instead, and Martin’s moans vibrate through both of their chests, connected skin to skin.

Douglas gets the chance to taste, after all, when his knot deflates and Martin is still reaching for a final climax. Douglas disposes of the spunk-filled condom, then pulls Martin by the ankles to the edge of the bed and pins his wrists to the mattress as he takes Martin’s cock into his mouth. Martin’s hips twitch up, but Douglas is prepared, and he lets go of Martin’s hands to help Martin lift his heels to the bed frame so that he has something to brace himself on as he fucks up into Douglas’s mouth. Martin’s hips jerk and stutter when his orgasm overtakes him, and he grabs Douglas’s shoulders in his need for something to hold on to, moving his hands to play with Douglas’s hair as Douglas licks his cock and balls clean, licking even a bit down past his balls, a startling touch that prompts Martin to close his legs suddenly and sit up. He stares at Douglas, red-faced and sweaty, and Douglas smiles.

“Breakfast?”

Martin looks over at the plate on the bedside cabinet and can’t hide a grimace at the sight of congealed cold bacon grease.

“Waffles, perhaps?” Douglas suggests.

* * *

The remainder of the day is a roulette of sex, a sampler of positions from one of those cheesy decks of “spice up your sex life” cards sold at adult shops with names like _Intimate Occasions_ or _Fun after Dark_. There’s Martin leaning on his elbows over the back of the sofa because he couldn’t wait to get to the bedroom, not ten yards away, coming multiple times into his hand to avoid soiling the upholstery. There’s Douglas bracing Martin against the bedroom wall next to the dresser after Martin successfully distracted Douglas while he was busy changing the sheets and there was nowhere else to hand, or at least nowhere else that occurred to either of their lust-addled brains. Douglas withdraws after Martin’s first orgasm to finish the sheet-changing while Martin watches sullenly, one shoulder leant against the wall, one foot propped up on a half-open dresser drawer, not nearly satisfied by his own two fingers pumping and scissoring inside his hole. He insists on Douglas pinning him to the freshly-clothed mattress, his knees over Douglas’s shoulders, but this time he lets Douglas roll them once he’s knotted so that like the first time he rides out Douglas’s knotting while straddling Douglas’s lap, coming twice more with the application of Douglas’s fingers to his cock and nipples, not to mention the occasional shiver of pleasure that rolls through him from Douglas’s cock pushing against his sensitive internal rim and even deeper inside.

There’s also Martin straddling Douglas’s lap in the bath when another wave follows the previous after a surprisingly slim margin of twenty minutes and what was going to be a time for relaxation and ablution becomes frantic and desperate. Douglas tries to guide Martin into a slow, grinding rhythm, but Martin keeps breaking away, throwing his head back and grunting as he bounces on Douglas’s cock, and finally when the amount of water remaining in the bath seems to be closing in on only half (the rest having slopped out under the force of Martin’s enthusiasm), Douglas pulls out the drain plug and lets Martin have at it. It’s quite a sight: Martin holding tightly to the sides of the tub and fucking himself hard on Douglas’s cock, grunting with the effort, his eyes half-lidded and unfocused. He comes twice without a touch to his cock and barely pauses or slows the movement of his hips. When Douglas’s knot plugs him tight, he keeps rocking and grinding in his lap, whining lowly in his throat. Douglas helps him to his third and fourth orgasms by sucking then biting at his nipples and pumping his cock roughly—Martin is beyond gentle touch, at least for this round, the rough-edged animal root of his biology having taken over.

When it’s over and his knot deflates, Douglas’s cock slips out of Martin’s arse slippery with come, and Douglas stares stupidly, wondering why the sight seems so odd. He can’t think straight; everything from his shoulders down aches. The knobs of his spine feel bruised from being pressed against the wall of the tub, his arse feels moulded to the curve of the porcelain, and his tailbone has gone uncomfortably numb under the abuse and pressure of Martin’s driving rhythm. Martin actually manages to get to his feet before Douglas, and he offers a hand to help Douglas up, then tugs the shower curtain closed and turns on the spray. The warmth of the water, even if Martin hasn’t turned it as hot as Douglas would prefer, helps his brain to restart. Douglas was close to shivering from the clammy cold after letting the water out of the bath; after all, he doesn’t have Martin’s heat-induced increase in body temperature to keep him warm.

“Hungry?” Douglas asks as he’s towelling Martin off.

“Not really.” Martin yawns, his jaw cracking. “I think I’d rather a nap.”

“All right. I have to run a small errand,” Douglas says, handing Martin a clean pair of pants and a T-shirt. It’s not a lie, not really, but it feels like one. “Do you mind if I go while you sleep?”

“Of course not.” Martin leans in to kiss Douglas on the mouth, clinging to his lips for a few seconds. “You take such good care of me.” There’s a bit of wonder in Martin’s voice, but Douglas feels only a stab of guilt in his gut.

* * *

#### Plan A.

Douglas gets into his car but doesn’t turn the key in the ignition. He pulls out his mobile, navigates the list of contacts to ‘Jeffries, Randall’, and clicks the green call button. Five rings, voicemail, Randall’s voice as cheerful as Douglas remembers. Douglas doesn’t leave a message.

This plan was a long shot. Douglas hasn’t seen Randall since his Air England days, and even then they’d really only seen each other a handful of times. A handful of Randall’s _heats_ , to be precise, when Douglas was between Mrs. Richardson #2 and Mrs. Richardson #3. Douglas can’t even properly remember what Randall was like, now; the memories that come to mind might belong to Randall, but they feature Martin’s slimmer legs and Martin’s paler, freckle-dotted skin. Randall was always prepared for any eventuality, and that’s why he was Plan A. Perhaps it’s worth another go, just in case Randall didn’t answer out of confusion. Two calls in a short span of time will get the message across: this is an emergency, not an awkward years-later booty call or whatever else it could seem to be.

No answer again, and Douglas doesn’t leave a message. There isn’t time to wait for a ring back.

#### Plan B.

“What is it that you want, Douglas?” Her tone is not happy.

“A favor.”

“A _favor_? From me?”

“Yes, but not _for_ me. Please hear me out.”

She sighs. “Give it to us then.”

“Emergency contraception.”

“ _Douglas_.”

“It was an accident. You know how things get sometimes. It was overwhelming, not that that’s an excuse. I know it’s my bloody fault, and I’m trying to fix it as best I can.”

“Surely they can just call their physician?”

“He doesn’t have one.”

“Why not?”

“Because this is his first heat.” There’s a shocked noise over the line, and then it goes completely silent; she’s hung up. Douglas rings again. And two more times, when she doesn’t pick up the first.

“He’s _thirty-three_ ,” Douglas starts without introduction. “He was unpresented until two days ago, but I’ve known him for years, and I’m not taking advantage. _He_ convinced me.”

“If you say so.”

“I do say so.”

“And you’re sure he wants contraception?”

Now it’s Douglas’ turn to go silent.

“Douglas?”

“Of course he bloody well wants contraception!” Douglas explodes. “He didn’t even know he could bear children three days ago. Even if it’s something he might decide later that he wants—which, by the way, knowing him as well as I do, I very much _doubt_ —he hasn’t had time to think it through clearly yet. _Honestly_ , woman–”

“Oh don’t you dare ‘woman’ _me_! If this isn’t about us, don’t make it about us. Or more precisely don’t make it about your delusions regarding the contribution of my gender to our differences, you– You misogynist dirtbag.”

“Misogynist? That’s _rich_. And spectacularly inaccurate, given that you’re not a woman.”

She sighs. “You know what I meant.”

“Actually, I don’t. I’ll admit I have my issues–”

A bitter, broken laugh. “Yes, _your_ issues. Progressive Alpha Douglas doesn’t want children and punishes anyone who ‘falls prey to’ to the gender-stereotyped desire to have them. Never mind that it’s a perfectly honest desire that many men, women, Alphas _and_ Omegas, have. You hated me for it.”

“I didn’t,” Douglas protests, but weakly.

“You grew to.” A pause. “Don’t lie.”

“Perhaps,” Douglas concedes, his voice small. Perhaps a concession will get him what he needs.

It doesn’t. “Even after all these years– It doesn’t take much for us to go at each other, does it?” she starts again, her tone philosophical. “In any case, I can’t help you. My cycles ended about a year ago. I don’t have anything to hand. I’m sorry. I– Do you know a doctor there to call? You’ll need one in any case.”

“I don’t know any, but I was going to look one up. Of course I was.”

“Well, if you like I can call Dr. Slater and try to get a recommendation for you.”

“That would be very nice of you.”

“Yes, it would. I’ll thank you to remember it in future.”

“I will.”

Douglas looks at his watch as he waits for her to call back with the recommendation. He imagines Martin inside, sleeping peacefully while his own sperm are exploring deep inside. What an idiotic idea, getting into the bath together when the spacing of Martin’s waves of arousal had already been so unpredictable. Where had his brains _been_ when Martin climbed over him and grabbed his bare cock to hold it steady as he spread his legs and lowered himself down? Clearly not in his _head_.

Douglas takes down the address and telephone number for the clinic and finishes the call quickly. He starts the car and makes his way across town. One step at a time.

The waiting room is full of pregnant Omegas, and every pair of eyes fixes him in a glare as he enters. He should have washed more thoroughly in the shower.

The receptionist at the desk arches her eyebrow at him, and the combination with her stare is as pointed as if she’d actually come out and said what’s on her mind: Why the _fuck_ are _you_ here?

“It’s an emergency. I was recommended to see Dr. Yardley. Do you think there might be a chance he could squeeze me in for five minutes?”

“What sort of emergency?”

“What sort do you think?” Douglas grinds out between clenched teeth.

The receptionist is unimpressed.

“Please.” Douglas’s tone is desperate, and it seems to get through. The receptionist looks down at his hands, clenched tight and tense around the edge of the counter.

“All right, I’ll ask if _she_ can squeeze you in before her tea break. Which is in forty minutes.”

“Thank you.”

She returns after several minutes, during which time Douglas hasn’t moved. The dozen or so Omega glares kept him from taking the only open seat next to a table strewn with old copies of _Pαrenting_ (“7 Ways to Fix Rude Alpha Tween Behavior”) and _Omega First_ (“Does Spending Time Apart before Heat Lead to Better Sex?”).

“She agreed to give you five minutes. Your name?”

“Douglas Richardson.”

The receptionist takes down the rest of his details, then gets up and gestures for him to follow. She leads Douglas to a small office crammed with piles of files and paper, but there’s a clear chair behind a small desk.

“I think everyone would prefer it if you waited here.”

“Thank you.”

The receptionist laughs. “I don’t know who or what you think you are. I didn’t do it for _you_.”

“I’m well aware.” Douglas sits and crosses his arms over his chest. “I apologise if I keep…stepping on toes. I’ve been out of this world for a long while; I’d forgotten what it’s like.”

* * *

Douglas sits in the car for several minutes when he returns, the kit tucked into his inside jacket pocket. Martin is likely still napping, and Douglas needs to figure out what he’s going to say. His stomach is tight with dread; after this, there’s no way the rest of this heat is going to be as relaxed or as happily exploratory. But it’s his duty to take care of Martin, and the sooner Martin gets the dose, the better.

Martin isn’t asleep. He’s, of all things, dicing an onion. There’s a pot of water on the hob.

“You’re back.” Martin smiles. “I was just getting a start on your recipe for spaghetti bolognese.” Douglas is struck dumb, and Martin continues uncertainly. “You don’t mind, do you?”

“No, of course not. Just–”

Douglas flips off the hob and takes the knife from Martin’s hand.

“Leave this for a minute. And wash your hands.”

Martin does as he’s told, frowning a little. Douglas had tried—but evidently failed—to keep the seriousness from his tone.

“What’s the matter?”

Douglas retrieves the small white paper bag from his jacket pocket, then shrugs his jacket off and goes to hang it in the closet while Martin’s curiosity runs its course.

“Oh _God_.” Martin has sagged back against the counter for support, and his face is already gone pale and ashen. The bag is discarded on the tile, and Martin is holding the bright yellow plastic clamshell case in his hands: “Omega Emergency Contraception: Single Dose.”

Douglas takes the case and sets it aside on the counter. He palms Martin’s cheek and tips his face up until Martin’s eyes meet his own.

“It’s my fault. I’m sorry. I should have–”

“You should have stopped me climbing onto your dick?” Martin pushes away.

Douglas winces. “Yes, I should have.”

“Why? Why _you_?” Martin throws his arms up in a wide, frustrated gesture. “I don’t get it. Am I not to be held responsible for _my_ actions? It’s a bit insulting to be thought incapable of controlling myself.”

“I don’t– You want the blame?” Douglas asks, incredulous.

“I grabbed your cock and sat on it, didn’t I?” Martin has tears in his eyes, whether born of frustration or the sudden realisation of the situation he’s in, Douglas doesn’t know, but they make his heart clench to see.

Martin struggles when Douglas tries to gather him into his embrace, but Douglas persists, covering the back of Martin’s neck with his hand and wrapping his other arm tightly around Martin’s waist. Soon enough, Martin hides his face in Douglas’s neck and breathes, relaxing marginally.

“Listen to me, Martin.” Douglas rubs Martin’s back and speaks softly into the hair above his ear, and Martin relaxes a little more. “I know you’ve had a lot to absorb, these last few days, and if I’m trying to take control, then it’s because of that, because you’re not used to this, and not because I don’t think you’re capable or responsible. You are. Of course you are.” Martin circles his arms around Douglas’s waist and relaxes yet a little more, although his shoulders are still tense and high.

“And of course you have a choice about what to do in this situation, but I cannot hide the fact that I do think you should take the dose. Having a child is a life-changing proposition, and the hours it’s been since you’ve found out you’re capable of bearing one yourself are still countable. I’ll be rather inclined to argue with you if you tell me you’re certain that you’re ready to bear a child. And if you don’t take the dose, the likelihood of your becoming pregnant is very high indeed. This isn’t like with men and women. Heat is different, a more targeted approach to reproduction.”

Douglas isn’t surprised that Martin doesn’t answer. He rubs Martin’s spine and kisses his hair, allowing Martin the minutes it takes for him to gather himself back together. When he does, he pulls back and picks up the yellow clamshell, turning it over in his hands a couple of times before pulling open the latch. What’s inside is clearly not what he was expecting: two large syringe-and-needle combinations pre-filled with a clear liquid, two vials of white powder. Martin looks over to Douglas, confusion clear on his face.

“It has to be mixed,” Douglas explains. “It’s not stable in solution, or something like that.”

“Where?”

Douglas taps Martin’s deltoid muscle with two fingers. “Here. Just like a booster jab. I can help you do it yourself, if you like.”

“No, I’d rather you… Would you?”

“Of course. Now?”

Martin nods.

“Slip off your shirt then.”

Douglas fetches a bottle of isopropyl alcohol and a box of plasters, then washes his hands thoroughly at the kitchen sink. When he returns, Martin is shirtless, the leaflet from the clamshell spread out on the counter. Martin’s abusing his lower lip with his teeth as he reads.

“Anything interesting?” Douglas tries for a light tone. He barely stops himself from brushing the curve of Martin’s lower back with his just sterilised fingertips.

“Well, the side effects don’t sound fun. And it’s not a hundred percent effective.”

“Almost nothing in medicine is.” Douglas flips off the top of the vial of powder to expose the rubber stopper. He snaps off and discards the outer needle cap and the safety guard on the syringe’s plunger and carefully inserts the needle into and through the rubber, dispensing the clear liquid with one slow push.

“Only ninety-five percent effective when the first injection is administered within twenty-four hours of unprotected intercourse.”

Douglas pinches the neck of the vial between the tips of two fingers and braces his thumb at the base. He flips the vial between upside down and right side up repeatedly but slowly, mixing the solution without frothing it into bubbles. “I think it’s ninety-seven percent within three hours, if I remember correctly.”

Martin squints at the tiny print in the leaflet. “Ninety-seven point five percent,” he corrects. “You’ve used this before?”

_Damn it_. Douglas walked straight into that one. “Yes, but I think that’s a story for another time.”

“All right.” Martin attempts to fold up the leaflet but can’t replicate the pattern and ends up just pushing it to the side, huffing with frustration.

“Left arm?”

Martin nods and watches as Douglas swabs at his upper arm with a napkin corner soaked in alcohol. He continues to watch as Douglas reinserts the needle of the now empty syringe, then tips the vial upside down and draws the mixture down to fill the syringe, using a pen to tap a few stray bubbles to the top and push them out. And he continues to watch as Douglas braces his free hand on Martin’s shoulder and positions the syringe for injection.

“You might want to look away,” Douglas advises.

“I don’t mind needles.” Martin looks Douglas straight in the eye; he _trusts_ Douglas, to a staggering degree.

Douglas administers the injection with care, depressing the plunger slowly to reduce the sensation of pressure and withdrawing the needle smoothly. He presses the napkin over the tiny wound while he fumbles for a plaster. After he’s smoothed the plaster onto Martin’s skin, Martin sighs and bends to retrieve his discarded shirt. While Martin’s looping his pullover back around his neck and wincing as he pushes his left arm through its sleeve, Douglas sets an alarm in his phone for twelve hours later; it’ll be the middle of night, but it’s best to be precise about the timing of the two doses.

Martin hesitates, pulling the cuffs of his sleeves down over his hands. “Thank you,” he says softly, lifting himself up to his toes to peck a kiss on Douglas’s lips.

“No need to thank me.” Douglas rests his palm in the curve of Martin’s lower back, where it always wants to be. “I wish it hadn’t come to this.”

“Mm. What now?”

“We could resume Mission: Bolognese together, if you like,” Douglas suggests. Much as Douglas would like to settle Martin onto the sofa with a mug of tea, Martin needs to help, he can see that now.

Martin turns out to be a surprisingly adept sous chef. His dice (carrot and celery, in addition to the onion) is precise and even; his questions, while he works, are unfortunately just as precisely targeted.

“What if it doesn’t work?”

Douglas puts the cap back on the olive oil and replaces it in the cupboard before answering. “You can choose to keep it, of course, or…I think you know what the other option is.”

“Abortion.”

“Before seven weeks it’s very easy, before twelve it’s safe, and after that it gets a bit risky. It’s not as simple with Omegas as with women, I’m afraid. There a risk of compromising future fertility.”

“ _My_ future fertility.”

“Yes.”

“Well, you can’t miss something you never knew you had, can you?” There’s bitterness in Martin’s tone.

Douglas doesn’t answer.

“I don’t mean to take it out on you,” Martin continues, contrite. “I really don’t blame you. I don’t. It’s just– Like you said, it’s a lot to process.”

“It’s fine,” Douglas answers. “I didn’t think you were blaming me. I just– I’m not the best person to advise you on reproductive matters, and this isn’t the best time to get into why, I don’t think.” Little as it is, it’s more than Douglas planned to say at this juncture.

“You fought about it, about having children, with Mrs. Richardsons one and two. It’s why you split up?”

Damn Martin and his moments of stunningly clear perception. “Yes.”

Martin laughs and then claps a hand over his mouth to stifle it when Douglas gives him a sharp look. “Sorry, it’s just– Douglas, I’ve _never_ imagined myself having children. I mean never _ever_. I don’t think you have anything to worry about. I mean, I imagine I’ll have to have a think about it now, if only because it’s possible in a different way than it was before, but I really don’t think…” Martin trails off. “Don’t worry about it, okay?” The last of this is muffled into Douglas’s shirt; Martin has stepped behind him and circled his arms around Douglas’s middle, speaking his reassurances into Douglas’s collar, his words warm through cotton.

Douglas lays his arms over Martin’s and squeezes back. “Okay,” he confirms, an Alpha accepting the comfort of his Omega. Strange, but perhaps he could get used to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be mostly smut, but it grew a rather large Douglas-has-issues-to-work-through plot tumor. I’m sorry? God, I can’t believe how long it’s getting. /o\
> 
> Chapter five is started (and smuttier!), but it might be a bit before it’s finished. (Sorry I’m not more regimented in my updates… I’ve never been very good at schedules or deadlines.)
> 
> Re: this particular version of Omegaverse.
> 
>   * I figure Alphas & Omegas keep themselves pretty hidden from the mainstream population, hence why Douglas can’t just get emergency contraception at a chemist’s.
>   * I based the administration method for the Omega emergency contraception on emergency injectable [Glucagon](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Glucagon) used to treat severe hypoglycemia, usually in those with type 1 diabetes. (Basically just because an injection is more dramatic and hurt/comfort-y…)
>   * The other factoids about emergency contraception and abortion are partly based on statistics for these things in the real world and partly made up or adjusted to suit the purposes of fic. This should go without saying, but don’t take what I write here about Omega birth control as a guide to real life!
> 



	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Just give it a try. You might like it, and it’ll help.”
> 
> Martin looks up at the ceiling. It appears dove grey in the dim light, flat and boring; offering no solutions, useless. He tips his head back to face Douglas.
> 
> “ _Fine_. How?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smuttier than the last chapter, as promised ;)

This is the kind of situation that will be a memory to be laughed about later, Martin hopes. His next wave of arousal builds while they’re still cooking, more of an early dinner now than a very late lunch as it might have been had Martin not been interrupted. Martin’s cock swells into a bulge in his pyjama bottoms. Noticeable (and Douglas definitely notices), but not yet insistent. By the time they sit down to eat, however, Martin is tenting out his bottoms obscenely and walking gingerly, but he’s determined to prove his self-control, and Douglas seems willing to let him, no matter how often his eyes tumble from higher heights down to Martin’s groin. Not to mention Douglas’s cock showing itself clearly even trapped in his trousers, which can’t be comfortable.

Martin serves himself only a small portion of pasta and sauce, and Douglas follows suit. They eat to the infuriating metronomic click of Douglas’s kitchen clock, and when they’ve both cleaned their plates, Martin takes them to the sink, more because he doesn’t know what else to do than because of an honest desire to help with the washing up. He washes his hands slowly, but when he goes to fetch a towel to dry them, Douglas catches his gaze and holds it fixed. Douglas, half-leaning back against the counter, looking disconcertingly not at all at home in his own kitchen. The sight nearly makes Martin shiver.

Douglas clears his throat. “I still have the, uh, _aids_. I can get them for you and show you, or just explain,” he says in a rush.

“No, thank you.” Martin finishes drying the webbing between his fingers and replaces the towel to its rack. A sudden realisation stops Martin from turning back to face Douglas again: what if _Douglas_ doesn’t want to fuck him anymore? What if his antipathy to the possibility of begetting children runs that deep? Martin holds tightly to the edge of the counter and asks, “Unless you don’t want to–?” Or attempts to ask, at least.

Three of Douglas’s fingers on his shoulder. Still keeping his distance; it’s not a hug, but it’s not nothing. “No,” Douglas confirms. “That’s not it. I wanted to make sure you know you have the choice, at any time. That’s all.”

It’s early evening yet, but the winter sun is set, and the twilight dark has cast the bedroom in somber greys and dark blues, not terribly welcoming, especially given the new seriousness of Martin’s situation. Their situation. Douglas turns on the bedside lamp, and the yellow glow helps, picking up the rose tones in Douglas’s pale chocolate-coloured duvet. Douglas sits on the edge of the bed, waiting.

“Take off your clothes, please.”

Douglas does as he’s asked, and Martin watches from the bed once he’s accomplished the same (his a much quicker task). Douglas retrieves and puts on a condom before he joins Martin on the bed, laying on his side to mirror Martin’s position. Martin draws himself close with a hand at the back of Douglas’s neck, and Douglas opens easily for his kiss.

This is still good, despite everything. Martin hooks an ankle around Douglas’s legs to draw himself closer, and Douglas finally begins to reciprocate with a hand pressed to Martin’s lower back. Martin’s cock bumps into Douglas’s belly, and Douglas’s erection insinuates itself between Martin’s legs. Martin breaks off the kiss to breathe, pushing his forehead against Douglas’s cheek as he looks down their bodies to catch the gleam of the wet patch he’s spreading on Douglas’s skin. Who would have thought, just days ago, he’d be in this position? Martin tries to hold back his giggles, but fails and snorts them instead.

“What’s so funny?”

“I don’t know, just…this. _Sex_.”

“Hmm,” Douglas hums into Martin’s ear and captures his earlobe between his lips and sucks, then pulls on it with his teeth.

“Oh _God_ , that’s not fair.” Martin pushes his cock harder into Douglas’s belly, but it’s not enough.

“What would be fair then?” Douglas sucks hard on Martin’s neck below his ear. “Enlighten me.”

“Your cock inside me, for a start.”

“I’m sorry. Inside where? You’ll have to be a bit more specific.”

Martin grabs Douglas’s hand and guides it between his legs. “You know where.”

Douglas trails two fingers back. “What, here?” He prods gently at Martin’s hole, but even the gentle touch is a burning, searing thing, and Martin flinches, clamping his thighs tight around Douglas’s wrist.

“Sorry, that–” Martin starts, but Douglas touches a fingertip to his pucker again, and Martin has to grab his wrist and pull it away before resuming his train of thought. “Ouch, don’t do it again. That hurts.”

“Sore?”

“Yeah.” The burn is fading, but it’s still a presence in the back of his mind. “Why? Is that normal?”

“I don’t know about normal, but certainly understandable given what your arse has been through, particularly the, ah, _energy_ of our last coupling. Not to mention the water washing away some of your lubrication.”

Martin feels his cheeks heat and buries his face in Douglas’s neck. If only he could go back in time and refuse Douglas’s offer of that bath; no good _at all_ seems to have come of it.

“There’s…something I can do that will help.”

“What’s that?”

“My mouth.”

Martin pulls back, confusion overriding embarrassment.

“Your mouth?”

“Well, my saliva. Alpha saliva. It has soothing properties. Anti-inflammatory, analgesic.”

“You think rubbing your saliva on my– down _there_ will help?”

Douglas looks both confused and uncomfortable, so far as Martin can make out his expression with the lamp casting severe shadows over his face. This polite conversation is pointless.

“Just spit it out, Douglas,” Martin grumbles.

“The usual method of application is _direct_ application.”

“You mean put your mouth _there_?”

“ _Yes_.”

Martin pulls a face. “You’d do that?”

“Oh _absolutely_.”

“You _want_ to?”

Douglas kisses Martin in answer, opening Martin’s mouth with an insistent tongue and delving deep inside, the motion not unlike fucking. Martin groans and drags Douglas’s hand to wrap it around his cock, together with his own. He sets up a rhythm of smooth, tight pulls, but he doesn’t hold it for long. He kicks his legs in frustration and stops, stilling Douglas’s hand with a warning squeeze. Douglas releases Martin’s mouth and looks down their bodies.

“I wish this could be enough,” Martin complains, squeezing his hand around Douglas’s to show what he means.

Douglas extricates his hand from under Martin’s and scrambles up, rolling Martin to his back with his feet flat on the bed, settling himself between Martin’s legs. He rests his elbows on Martin’s knees and looks down at Martin, perhaps waiting for Martin to return his gaze, but Martin’s caught sight of something else.

“What’s this?” he asks, reaching to finger a plaster in the crook of one of Douglas’s elbows.

“Ah, nothing.” Douglas picks the plaster off and tosses it across the room in the direction of the bin, but it falls short by several feet.

It’s not just avoiding what’s to come, it’s not. Douglas didn’t have the plaster earlier, Martin is certain. “You didn’t have it earlier.”

Douglas sighs and looks down, then off to the left. (The sight of Martin’s groin is probably not the calming sight he’d been looking for.)

“Dr. Yardley wouldn’t let me away without a blood draw to test for STIs. She’ll insist on one for you as well, I’m sure, when you go in.”

“ _When_ I go in?”

“Yes. That was a condition of her giving me the contraceptive as well.” While he speaks, perhaps without even knowing it, Douglas runs his palms from Martin’s knees down to his ankles, then back up and down, over and again. A soothing, meditative rhythm. “She almost insisted on scheduling the appointment then and there, but I managed to convince her that your job is too unpredictable, but I had to promise you’d call to make the appointment as soon as possible. About a week after your heat ends would be the best time to go in.”

“A week,” Martin repeats. “Is that when–”

“Yes,” Douglas cuts off. His hands crest the hill of Martin’s knees and then travel down the other side, trailing ticklishly to Martin’s inner thighs.

Martin ignores the distraction, pulling his knees in almost to touch, trapping Douglas’s hands and shutting him out at the same time.

“And if I choose not to make an appointment?”

“Then that’s your choice, but I daresay I’ll never again be able to show my face at that Omegala’s Health Clinic.”

Martin hadn’t even thought much about it yet, but yes, of course there must be special clinics. For the moment, curiosity quashes annoyance. “Would that be a problem?”

“Not particularly.” Douglas tugs his hands from the clasp of Martin’s legs and pushes Martin’s knees apart firmly, leaning forward to let his cock graze the cleft of Martin’s arse. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not an omega.”

Douglas’s cock so close, such a tease, so close to where Martin does—and yet _doesn’t_ —want it. Martin pulls his knees in and picks his feet off the bed to push his toes into Douglas’s hips and attempt to push him away, but Douglas is a rather solid weight, immovable.

“Just give it a try. You might like it, and it’ll help.”

Martin looks up at the ceiling. It appears dove grey in the dim light, flat and boring; offering no solutions, useless. He tips his head back to face Douglas.

“ _Fine_. How?”

“You can stay like this, for now. Just–” Douglas lifts Martin’s legs by the knees, spreading them wide and high. “Hold?”

Martin replaces Douglas’s hands with his own and looks away, wrenching his head to the side even as Douglas slithers down between his legs and out of sight. God, this position is undignified. Martin can feel his face burning with it. He feels like an oversized child holding still for a nappy changing.

Douglas’s hands on his arse cheeks, grabbing hold and spreading them, provoke a completely unconscious flinch and clench.

“Relax,” Douglas whispers, his breath hot just behind Martin’s balls. He starts there, not diving into the task straight away. Each kiss is a distinct wet patch as Douglas trails his way down incrementally until finally his lower lip touches slippery puckered skin, and he darts his tongue out to lick a firm stripe down over Martin’s hole. Smooth and hot and Martin’s bracing for burning and searing, but the burn cools into a pleasant tingle before it even has much of a chance to kindle. Douglas keeps licking with steady thorough strokes of his tongue that have an odd flavour of grooming to them, rather than sex. Not that it doesn’t feel sexual—it _does_. A now-familiar pleasure builds in time with Douglas’s rhythm (helped along by the steadiness of it, even) and crests with a fresh flow of lubricating heat, which only adds to the delicious sensation of warmth until Martin realises suddenly that he’s just discharged it into Douglas’s mouth and he drops his legs, forcing Douglas to disengage.

Douglas climbs back to his knees to face Martin, his expression quizzical and concerned. His lips and chin are wet…with Martin.

“Sorry.” Martin shifts, and the yawning chasm of his arse is foremost in his attention, slick and warm and open, throbbing with the need to be filled.

Douglas licks his lips before he speaks. _Douglas licks his lips._ “You’re sorry for…?”

“Ah, I don’t know.” Martin looks up again, but the ceiling is unhelpful as ever. “Do you like it?”

“I thought I’d made that clear.”

“No, I mean _it_.”

“‘It’ what, Martin?”

“ _It_ it.” Martin makes a small circle with his hand around his own mouth. Douglas only frowns deeper.

Martin scrambles to his knees and shuffles forward. Douglas watches him, almost cocking his head in curiosity, as Martin leans in and almost touches his nose to Douglas’s cheek. The smell is the same as when he’d first discovered it, alone in his attic, not unlike the smell of his own pre-come, definitely not _bad_. Martin darts out his tongue to lick at a patch of the slick— _his_ slick—on Douglas’s chin, where Douglas’s tongue didn’t quite reach. It tastes pretty much how it smells. Nothing remarkable, but suddenly Douglas’s hand is gripping, vice-like, around Martin’s bicep.

“You–” Douglas wheezes.

“Sorry.” Martin backs away, pulling his arm from Douglas’s grasp. Despite Douglas’s grip, it’s not difficult to pull away. Douglas is…distracted; he lets go as soon as Martin tries to twist out of the hold, and his arm drops limply to his side when Martin’s free.

Martin backs away, sitting down on his heels, all too aware of the wetness between his arse cheeks.

“Sorry,” Martin repeats, for lack of anything better to say.

Douglas shakes himself, looks at Martin, then touches his chin where Martin had just… “No, I’m sorry,” he rallies. “I didn’t know that’s what you meant. Yes, I like it. Quite a lot, actually.”

“Oh.”

Douglas grins. “ _Yes_. And–” He beckons to Martin with an open hand. “You surprised me, but you’re welcome to–” Douglas pulls Martin close with a hand at his nape, just barely not kissing him, “…whatever you like.”

Because they’re there and it seems the thing to do, Martin kisses Douglas square on the lips, opening his mouth right away to taste himself out of Douglas’s mouth. It’s strange, and staggeringly arousing more because of the intimacy it implies (Douglas just had his mouth _there_ ) than because of the actual taste or smell. It does a very, very good job of recalling to mind the fact of Douglas’s mouth there, how nice it was, simultaneously soothing and arousing, and Martin realises quickly that he’s thinking about Douglas doing it again. Preferably soon. Very soon. He draws back, and Douglas gives him a ‘what now?’ sort of look, and a cat has most definitely got Martin’s tongue. Not that he could ever just out and _ask_ for something like that.

“Why don’t you turn around and lean forward,” Douglas suggests.

Martin does as he’s told, hiding his face in the sheets, down on his elbows, arse in the air. Whether it’s better or worse than nappy-changing position is hard to say, really.

The bed shifts under Douglas’s weight as he settles between Martin’s spread knees. His hands travel from Martin’s hips to his arse, gently spreading him open again. The sudden touch of cool air to slick wetness provokes a shiver, and Martin almost misses it when Douglas asks, “All right?”

“Yes.”

Douglas licks from just behind Martin’s balls to his tailbone, twice, two thick hot stripes. He settles in around Martin’s hole, licking messily. He works his mouth into a seal around Martin’s hole and alternates sucking gently with small circling strokes of his tongue, each of which seems to connect via direct conduit to Martin’s balls. They lift and tighten, and orgasm builds as a warm glow in the cradle of Martin’s hips, anchored by Douglas’s mouth, wet and hot and sucking, and _fuck_ , Martin scrambles to get a hand around the head of his cock to catch his release, and Douglas’s mouth is briefly dislodged, but he responds by digging his fingers into Martin’s arse cheeks to pull him back, shoving his face into Martin’s cleft—Douglas’s nose an insistent, recognisable point of pressure—and sucking and licking back and forth over Martin’s clenched tight hole as his orgasm tightens every muscle in his lower body.

Douglas continues to lick as Martin recovers. Back to the catlike, rhythmic strokes. He pauses on occasion, but then his tongue returns hotter and wetter and twists and worms a little way just inside Martin’s hole, and there’s more slight burn transmuting into fading pins and needles when Douglas really gets his tongue _inside_ , just a bit.

By the time Douglas delivers a final slow and thorough lick to Martin’s hole and the surrounding skin, Martin’s hip flexors are protesting mightily, and all he can do is tip over to his side and close his legs slowly. Douglas is there before he can close them completely, his thigh between Martin’s legs, his chest to Martin’s back.

“Do you want?” Douglas asks, haltingly. Martin nods.

Douglas’s cock feels hotter than Martin’s felt it yet, burning against his arse and inner thigh. The emptiness is clawing again, demanding. Douglas slides in smoothly, and Martin clutches tightly to Douglas’s arm wrapped around his middle. It doesn’t hurt, but it feels bigger and more of a stretch than before, oversensitive in a way that’s squarely between pain and pleasure.

It mutates into pure pleasure as soon as the head of Douglas’s cock pushes into the deep cavern of Martin’s vagina. _That’s_ not sore, apparently.

“All right?”

Martin rolls his hips in answer, letting Douglas’s cock head slip out and return.

“Yes,” he hisses, holding the _s_ longer than he intends.

Douglas keeps his thrusts quick and small and deep, stimulating Martin most where it counts most. Martin comes again before Douglas’s knot expands, and a final time just after the stretching tightness of the knot pushes at newly soothed skin and Douglas’s hand curls around his cock to help him to his climax, which breaks over him in a rippling wave that leaves his muscles noodle-limp in its wake.

Douglas talks while they wait out the knotting, his voice gravelly and low, a tickle next to Martin’s ear. He keeps up a murmuring stream on the various themes of how good Martin feels deep inside, how satisfying it’s been to watch and feel and hear Martin come, how happy Douglas is that he was in the right place at the right time to discover Martin’s biological transition. It’s strange to take it all in, and the words start to roll off Martin’s brain, collecting in a messy heap in the back of his mind where he’ll no doubt die of embarrassment if he ever stumbles across them again and remembers.

Douglas’s hands wander too, stroking endlessly over Martin’s chest and sides, only stopping to take one of Martin’s hands in his and weave their fingers together, resting their joined hands in the centre of Martin’s chest as he presses in impossibly closer, pushing his knees more firmly into the backs of Martin’s. It’s like nothing Martin’s ever felt before; he’s completely surrounded by Douglas (or it feels like), so much skin against skin.

After his knot deflates, Douglas tends to his necessities in the loo and returns with a moistened flannel. He taps Martin on the hip. Martin tries to twist onto his back, but Douglas’s grip on his hip stops him.

“What?”

“I could use this–” Douglas holds up the flannel. “Or…”

“Or?”

Douglas’s hands wanders down to Martin’s arse and pushes at one cheek, pushing it slightly…open.

“My mouth.”

“Again?”

“A preventative measure, but not if you’d prefer–”

“No, um, that’s fine,” Martin says, turning his face back into the sheets. “If you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.”

Douglas nudges and pushes until Martin rolls back to his belly and spreads his legs wide. He pushes Martin’s arse cheeks apart gently and dips his mouth down to taste. Somehow, Douglas’s mouth is hotter than Martin remembered, despite the short interval that it’s been since his hole and Douglas’s mouth first became acquainted. It’s not arousing in the least this time around, but it feels amazing all the same, warm and soft and gentle. The minutes pass floating and drifting on the directionless eddies of sensation. Martin feels Douglas’s mouth depart and his legs being closed. A pair of large hands stroke along his back and turn him by the hips.

Martin’s more than half asleep when the question comes.

“Do you want me to wake you?” Douglas asks.

“Hmm?”

“For the second injection. Do you want me to wake you?”

That’s a reminder Martin could have done without. Eyes open, and the sheet pulls too tight when he rolls onto his back. He scrambles and kicks, and Douglas helps him remove the unwelcome constriction.

“Yes. You’re going to set an alarm?”

“I have done.”

“Oh, okay. Good. Yes, you should wake me.”

“If you sleep that long. It’s fine if you don’t, if you wake up and need something else.”

“Yeah, I understand. Are you–?” Douglas is sitting on the edge of the bed, dressed in a pair of pyjama bottoms and a T-shirt. “You aren’t tired?”

Douglas looks away for a second. “No,” he says, looking back. “Not really. Do you mind if I leave you to sleep?”

“No, that’s fine. Of course it’s fine. I’m sure you have things to do.”

“It’s not that. I can stay. Just say the word.”

“No, I’m fine. I’m sure I’ll drop off in a minute.”

“You’re sure?”

“Definitely.” There’s something that seems a bit _off_ about Douglas’s solicitousness, not that Martin can put a finger on it. It’s just something in the deliberate cadence of his words. Perhaps.

* * *

Martin wakes to Douglas’s fingers squeezing firmly around his hip. There’s no sound of an alarm, only a dark, quiet bedroom.

“Martin, time to wake up. Just for a minute.”

“’m _awake_ ,” Martin grumbles, arching into a full body stretch and almost nodding off again as soon as he relaxes out of it.

“Sit up for a minute?”

Martin struggles up and leans against the headboard without a pillow behind for a cushion; the discomfort is all he can think of to keep himself awake. He watches as Douglas mixes the second injection and fills the syringe. Strange, that Douglas didn’t prepare it in advance, unless it’s _that_ unstable, or unless Douglas wanted Martin to watch.

The coolness of the alcohol raises gooseflesh over the skin of both his arms. Douglas does the second injection in Martin’s other arm. His technique is as impeccable as the first time, but this time Martin doesn’t watch, only looks at the shape of his toes and knees under the sheet and waits for it to be over. He slides back down the bed and pulls the sheet up tight while Douglas disposes of the used syringe and puts away the alcohol and box of plasters.

Douglas climbs back into the bed with a sigh, and Martin turns over to observe him. It’s obvious from his body language that sleep is not an immediate goal: he’s laying stiffly on his back, his hands folded together and resting on his stomach. When Martin turns over, Douglas turns his head.

“Do you need anything?” he offers.

A hug or a kiss would be nice, Martin realises. But, _nice_ is not a need. “No, I’m fine,” he says.

“You should try to get as much sleep as you can. Still tired?”

“Yeah, I suppose.”

“Go back to sleep then.”

Martin rolls back to his other side, Douglas out of sight, and tries. His mind drifts on strange dreams that he can’t remember when he wakes, and when he does wake, with the darkness of night still mostly complete, it feels like he hadn’t drifted off at all, but clearly he had. Douglas is sleeping, tipped over onto his side facing away from Martin. The glowing numbers of the clock read 6:22, and Martin can’t begin to explain why he’s woken, but he feels alert and awake. Moving as quietly as possible, he gets out of bed, pulls on clean pyjama bottoms fished from his bag, and heads for the kitchen.

Once he’s on the sofa nursing a cup of tea, Martin realises that he’s _bored_. He doesn’t want to turn on the television, for fear of waking Douglas, and despite—or perhaps because of—the extreme number of new experiences and facts about himself the past few days have yielded, he doesn’t want to sit around and brood about such things. Not yet, not when he still has to cope with whatever’s to come next, not when there are still unknowns—one unknown in particular that won’t be resolved for a week or more, at Martin’s best recollection of how such things work.

So Martin casts an eye about and catches sight of a familiar tied-off sack discarded on the hall table. He brings it to the sofa and picks at the knotted plastic until it surrenders. What’s inside is definitely not _boring_. It seems like a fairly wide variety: a half dozen ‘toys’, in several variations of shape and material. The most abstract is a near crescent moon shaped bend of stainless steel with a large ball on one end and a small ball on the other. It’s extremely heavy and cold to the touch. Martin sets it aside; neither the shape nor the heft or the medical-like metal chill inspire any sort of desire.

Three of the six involve some approximation of a knot. Two are just made that way, with a large round protrusion near the base that’s both smaller and alarmingly larger than Martin might have imagined (not having been able to _see_ Douglas’s knot directly). Certainly the prospect of pushing such a toy into himself does not seem very comfortable or sexy; these two toys are set aside next to the metal one.

The third toy is a more complex affair; Martin only discovers its knotting function when he experiments with the two buttons at the base: one controls the toy’s vibrating capabilities—the noise causes Martin to panic, briefly, and scramble to cycle through the levels of vibration strength with each button push until a final push turns the vibrations off again—and the other causes some kind of internal bladder inside the toy to inflate with air, swelling the base of the dense foam-textured toy into an abstract approximation of a knot with a smoother transition from shaft to knot. Successive button pushes make the ‘knot’ larger and larger until, again, a final push causes a complete deflation. Martin doesn’t set this toy aside, but lets it rest in his lap as he examines the final two. The first is a rather too realistic flesh-toned but knotless dildo, complete with a ball-sack base, and the second a buttery smooth, only slightly curved dildo with abstract hints of anatomical features—a semi-triangular swell and then drop-off ridge to indicate a cock head and a gently broadening circumference near the base.

At the bottom of the sack there are several tubes and bottles and a colourful, glossy-papered leaflet: “The _Omega First_ Guide to Partnerless Heat.” Martin retrieves his tea and opens the leaflet with one hand.

Martin skims the first section, “Pre-Oestrus Preparations”, with its subheadings “Clearing Your Calendar”, “In the Home”, and “Heat-Specific Supplies”, the last with its own subsections “Toys” and “Lubrication Assistants and Soothers”. The latter begins with the blush-inducing proclamation:

> In recent years, pharmacological replacements for an Alpha’s soothing tongue have improved by leaps and bounds, allowing many Omegas to get through a heat comfortably and successfully without resorting to general analgesics or compromising their satisfaction with small, soft dildos.

It continues in the same informational tone, but despite the tone, Martin finds his own body responding to the content with a blossoming wetness between his arse cheeks.

> Alpha-saliva simulants fall into two broad categories: lubrication assistants help to stimulate the Omega’s endogenous production of lubrication; these can be particularly useful near the end of a heat, when many Omegas have trouble producing lubrication without the stimulating influence of Alpha pheromones applied directly to the anus. Soothers, on the other hand, aim to replace the anti-inflammatory and analgesic properties of Alpha saliva to relieve soreness and irritation of the anus after prolonged or rough sessions of simulated coitus.

Martin continues to sip at his tea and read despite the steadily growing arousal gathering in his pelvis. He learns about the potential risks of knotting with toys:

> On rare occasions, the use of a knotted dildo without a deflation mechanism will result in an indefinite knotting, where the Omega’s instinct to clench tight around the knot does not abate for many hours. In such an event, a doctor should be called to administer a muscle relaxant and oversee the process of dildo removal to prevent injury. The question of ‘how long is too long’ is largely at the discretion of the Omega, but in general most Omegas find knottings longer than two hours to be uncomfortable rather than pleasurable. The physician respondents to _Omega First_ ’s “Your Voices” survey (see issue 12.06) indicated a willingness to treat an Omega for an indefinite knotting after as little as sixty minutes.

As well as the appeal and uses of knotless toys:

> At the end of a heat, knotless toys may be preferred, as the knotting instinct will, in most cases, have abated considerably and the Omega may be experiencing soreness and irritation of the anus (see also: “Lubrication Assistants and Soothers” above). Knotless dildos are also considered safe for use while sleeping and may often be so employed (even during partnered heats) when the drive to be filled is particularly relentless.

Martin gulps down the last of his tea and blindly sets the mug aside as he rereads the phrase ‘drive to be filled’, which is accurate and evocative of the way he feels now. His cock is fully erect and throbbing; it’s pushed aside the fancy vibrating and knotting dildo to rest on his thigh instead of between his legs.

Martin considers. The house is quiet; the curtains are drawn, with the coming sunrise only just beginning to seep through the heavy cloth. Douglas, presumably, is still sleeping, and Martin doesn’t particularly want to wake him. He’d rather…well, surely inside his body the sound of the vibrations will be muffled. He should be able to do what he likes without waking Douglas. Although…

Martin rises, and shivers at the sensation of his ‘endogenous lubrication’ spilling out at the change in position. Definitely he’ll need something to protect the sofa, and these pyjama bottoms are headed for the laundry bin, the seat of them already sticky and clinging from the unexpected and sudden spill of slick.

Martin could crow with triumph, finding two neat stacks of both tea towels and fluffier, more absorbent hand towels in the narrow cupboard next to the one directly below the kitchen sink. He washes the vibrating dildo and the smooth abstract one in warm soapy water and rinses and dries both thoroughly (the recommended procedure, according to the “Toys” section, subheading “Toy Cleaning and Care”), then moves everything else to the coffee table and lays out three layers of towels on the sofa. He can’t help looking over each shoulder after stripping off his pyjamas; despite the drawn curtains, he feels exposed standing naked in Douglas’s sitting room. The sofa offers some measure of privacy; the back of it is positioned to hinder the casual eye from a view of what’s _on_ the sofa, but still Martin’s heart pounds as he arranges himself on his back, the towels layered under his bum. He hooks one ankle over the back of the sofa and reaches down, bypassing his desperate cock to touch a tentative fingertip to his hole.

It isn’t sore, but it is, _God_ , really _really_ empty. One finger slips in, then two, and they’re not remotely enough. Martin pulls them free and grabs for the abstract dildo, a slightly less intimidating prospect than the other. He pauses before pushing it in because the tease of having it right there, touching the smooth plastic tip to his pucker, is surprisingly intriguing. Shifting it back and forth and pushing with only very light pressure is not enough in the slightest, but it’s incredibly arousing to be completely in control of when it does or doesn’t go in.

It’s not that he doesn’t like when Douglas is on top, urgently pushing in right where Martin wants him, filling the emptiness, driving it out. He likes that. Definitely. But it’s different on his own, a potent thrill as he pushes what counts for the ‘head’ of the toy just inside, spreading his thighs wider and experimenting to get the angle right. With the head just inside, he pauses and clenches around the toy experimentally. This pushes the head of it tantalisingly close to his prostate and provokes a gush of slick, which in turn makes it all the easier to push the toy deeper and deeper. Martin slows the penetration as he closes in on his vaginal opening. That’s a little intimidating.

But he wants it, so he tilts his hips up and pushes the last half inch until the tip of the toy connects with that entrance deep inside. The pressure is delicious, and a flash of heat incinerates Martin’s insides along with his self-control; he pushes the toy all the way inside with a final rough push and can’t breathe for how perfect it feels. The tip of his cock is throbbing in time with the clenching spasms of his vaginal opening, and driven by sudden inspiration, he starts rocking the base of the toy up and down gently, and the movement telegraphs everywhere. He barely gets his hand over the head of his cock, holding it wide and flat like a shield to contain the mess as he comes, shivering and turning his head to mouth at his own shoulder and stifle his moan.

Well. That was interesting. Martin shivers again as he draws the toy out. When he reaches two fingers to his hole, it twitches under the touch, too-sensitive, and yet Martin still wants _more_.

Footsteps. _Douglas_.

“Martin?” No additional footsteps.

Martin drops his leg from the back of the sofa and sits up, pressing his legs together (ignoring the unpleasant wet squelch between his legs) and wrapping his arms around his knees. Attempting to make himself small, attempting to hide. Pointless. Douglas saw his foot, saw it disappear, knows just where Martin is.

“Don’t–” Martin whispers.

“Don’t what?” The footsteps don’t resume.

“Can you give me a few minutes? Of privacy?”

“What are–” Douglas stops himself. “I’ll just wait for you in the bedroom then?”

“Yeah,” Martin says on an exhale, letting the ring of his arms loosen a little. “Yeah, thanks.”

Douglas retreats back to the bedroom, and Martin gets up, wiping his stomach and cock and between his legs with one of the towels he’d been laying on. He bundles the used toy in the used towel, then rolls the used things into the middle of a bundle of mostly clean towels and sets the lot on the coffee table next to the empty sack, into which he replaces all of the toys and leaflet and tubes and bottles. Actual clean up can wait for later. Now, Martin needs relief, needs Douglas.

Owing to the clammy dampness of the seat of his pyjamas, Martin opts not to put them back on, but he holds them balled in front of his crotch as he pushes open the bedroom door and steps inside.

Douglas is sitting on the edge of the bed and looks up—then _down_ —when Martin enters.

“I– Can we–?” Martin fidgets as Douglas arches an eyebrow and ogles him again, deliberately, his eyes sliding slowly from top to toes.

“Come here.” Douglas spreads his knees, and Martin moves to stand between them. Douglas tugs Martin’s balled up pyjama bottoms out of his grasp, and a thin string of fresh pre-come stretches from Martin’s still hard cock to the cloth as it’s drawn away. Douglas bends down and licks the leak away, letting the head of Martin’s cock slip all the way into his mouth just for a second before he pulls off, smirking.

“Not fair,” Martin gasps, curling his toes into the carpet as a barely adequate outlet for the urge that threatens to make him do something terrible (grab Douglas’s face in both his hands and push his cock back between Douglas’s lips, for example).

Douglas’s hands find Martin’s waist, then slide down to his arse, kneading and spreading, distracting so thoroughly that Martin has to ask Douglas to repeat himself.

“What?”

“I said: what were you doing out there?”

Martin feels his blush hot under his cheeks and heating his ears. He tries to pull away, but Douglas’s hands firm their grip. Martin doesn’t _want_ to feel embarrassed about it; he knows it’s not wrong or weird—and besides that, it was really nice, giving himself pleasure in that way—but it’s such a new thing, and he wasn’t really expecting to have to talk about it, at least not so soon.

Douglas doesn’t ask again when Martin doesn’t answer. Instead he tugs sharply and tumbles Martin onto the bed, rolling him swiftly to his back, one of his legs stretched over Douglas’s shoulder.

“How’s this?” Douglas asks, two fingers stroking over Martin’s hole, teasing and unpredictable.

“Not _enough_.”

“Not sore?”

Martin shakes his head and spreads his legs wider, but Douglas won’t be hurried and it seems like ages before he’s convinced himself that Martin is ready, put on a condom, arranged a couple of pillows under Martin’s lower back, and finally pushed his cock deep inside. Douglas knots quickly, after a few minutes of hard, fast thrusts, and he half-collapses over Martin, his damp breath hot against the skin of Martin’s neck. Martin circles one arm around Douglas’s shoulders and reaches with the other while he carefully rearranges his legs. His hip cramps almost immediately in the odd angle as he reaches to feel where he’s holding Douglas in, where Douglas’s knot can be traced with his fingertips from the outside. It feels bigger than any of the toys. Douglas flinches when Martin prods at the knot through his skin, and Martin draws his hand away immediately.

“Sorry. Does that hurt?”

“No.” Douglas leaves off speaking while he readjusts, pushing with his hips to reseat his knot inside. “It’s just odd, and rather sensitive.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s–” Douglas is stopped by an orgasm, which manifests for Martin in being pressed down _down_ into the pillows and feeling the vibrations of Douglas’s groan. In the aftermath, Douglas rests more of his weight on Martin than is his habit, and it might be the extra sense of warmth and security that loosens Martin’s tongue.

“I was trying out the aids. Toys. Well, just one of them.”

“Hm?”

“Earlier. You asked what I was doing, and–”

“You were doing yourself,” Douglas finishes for him, propping himself up higher on his elbows to look down at Martin. He’s grinning. And Martin, _God damn it_ , is blushing again. Douglas leans down to kiss Martin’s cheek and speak into his ear, “Which one did you use?”

“Uh, the sort of…abstract one? It was, I think, blue. Yeah, the blue one,” Martin gets out.

“Did you like it?”

“Yes.” There isn’t much more to say than that, is there?

“Why’d you pick that one?”

“I dunno,” Martin gasps as Douglas withdraws, his knot deflated. He keeps speaking as Douglas takes care of the necessities, “I wanted to try the, uh, fancy one, but I thought I’d start with something simpler. And then you…interrupted.”

Douglas returns to the bed and kneels between Martin’s still-spread legs. He reaches for Martin’s cock and strokes the underside of it with teasing fingertip touches. “Would you like to try it now?”

“By myself?” Martin’s not sure he could comfortably just go at it with Douglas banned from the bedroom but conscious somewhere else in the house, fussing in the kitchen or tidying up while waiting for Martin to finish.

“Yes, if you like, or I could show you.”

“Please.”

“Which?”

Douglas wraps his hand around Martin’s cock and squeezes a little. Martin fights to keep his hips still. The notion of anything going back inside him right now is attractive, but Douglas pushing a toy inside doubly so.

“You.”

Douglas fetches the sack and rummages through it, holding up the vibrating dildo once he’s found it. “This one, yeah?”

Martin nods, blushing _yet again_.

Douglas slicks it with lube from one of the bottles and rubs the tip of it over Martin’s entrance. Martin reaches down and pushes Douglas’s hand off the toy to replace it with his own. He’d close his eyes, but Douglas isn’t looking at his face, his attention rather firmly fixed between Martin’s legs, and Martin is rather pleased to watch Douglas’s mouth drop open and his chest inflate with a sharp intake of breath when Martin pushes the toy slowly inside himself, seating it just at the edge of his vaginal opening.

Martin investigates the bottom of the toy with his fingertips. The two buttons have distinct patterns engraved, but he doesn’t know which is which.

“Can you–?”

“What?” Douglas looks up, meets Martin’s eyes, and Martin twists his face away to break the eye contact.

“I don’t know which button is which.”

“Ah.” Douglas’s hand joins Martin’s again on the toy, and he guides Martin’s index finger first to one button (“This is the knot”), then the other (“And this one does the vibration”). Martin keeps his finger on the second button but doesn’t push it.

“Nervous?”

Martin is, but he doesn’t answer. The mattress dips as Douglas stretches out on his side next to Martin, one hand on Martin’s chest, the other propping up his head. He leans over to kiss Martin’s jaw, working his way slowly to Martin’s mouth, where he keeps the kiss slow and gentle. Comforting.

_What the hell_. Martin pushes the button, and the toy jumps to life in his hand. He has to pull his mouth from Douglas’s to breathe, because _oh God_ it’s _intense_. The rattle of the toy in his hand is uncomfortable, but inside it’s _glorious_ , making what feels like every nerve inside sizzle with pleasure. He pushes his hips up a little, drawing the toy deeper, and when the vibrations reach his vaginal opening he comes, spurting onto his stomach with a whine that drops into a groan as the continuing vibrations draw out spasm after spasm.

Lips touch the corner of his mouth, and Martin turns into the kiss. As the aftershocks of orgasm fade into nothing, so does the vibration. That’s odd. Martin pulls the toy out a little and pushes it back in, but it remains quiet and still. He breaks off the kiss and sits up a little, looking down between his legs. Not that looking helps.

“It has a sensor to detect orgasm and turn off automatically.”

“Really?”

“Mm hmm.” Douglas pushes Martin back down flat on the bed and pecks a kiss on the tip of his nose. “Did you think you’d broken it?”

Yes, of course Martin had worried exactly that, but he doesn’t gratify Douglas’s mind-reading with an affirmative answer. Douglas doesn’t seem to mind. He strokes over Martin’s chest, catching a nipple between his fingertips. Martin gasps and feels himself clench around the toy. He reaches down and pushes the toy all the way inside, the tip rubbing his vaginal walls.

“Again?” Douglas asks.

In answer, Martin reaches for Douglas’s hand and guides it away from his nipple (which is tender bordering on sore, likely from the contraceptive) and down to the base of the toy.

“Would you?”

Martin folds his hands behind his head and stretches, spreading his thighs as wide as he can and tilting his hips up, but Douglas doesn’t get the hint. Or perhaps it hasn’t yet sunk in. Douglas’s expression is a little vacant. Martin rolls his hips again, closing his eyes to savour the deliciousness of the tip of the toy teasing him where it counts. He opens them again feeling movement in the mattress and barely registers Douglas’s shifted position before Douglas’s mouth slides down his cock and the toy jumps back to life. Douglas matches the rhythm of his sucking pulls around Martin’s cock to the small in-and-out thrusts he makes with the toy.

Douglas grips tightly around the base of Martin’s cock, and Martin is grateful for the anchor until his desire to come gets urgent.

“ _Douglas_ , please,” he hears himself whine. “I’m close, I want–”

Douglas’s rhythm is unchanged, so Martin reaches and claws at Douglas’s hand, pulling it off his cock finger by finger. Douglas casts his eyes up—somehow there’s a smirk in his gaze alone, his mouth fully occupied with Martin’s cock—and twists his now free hand suddenly to grab Martin’s wrist in a tight grip. His draws his mouth up slowly, drawing the toy out at the same time until only the tip of the toy is inside and only the head of Martin’s cock is in his mouth.

“ _Please_.”

Douglas counts to five, tapping out the beats on the inside of Martin’s wrist, and then he pushes the toy all the way back inside and swallows Martin’s cock down the root at the same time. He toggles the vibration up a notch and Martin arches off the bed as his orgasm approaches, but when it hits, thundering up from his toes, he collapses, legs shaking in time with the vibrations at his core.

Douglas gentles his mouth as Martin twitches with the aftershocks, and the vibrations of the toy slowly fade to nothing. Martin feels himself start to go flaccid even while Douglas’s mouth is still on him, or maybe it’s just that he can tell he’s going to go soft now, that this wave is finally over.

Martin shudders as Douglas eases the toy out, and he closes his legs slowly as Douglas resumes his place on his side next to Martin. Martin tips his head to the side to look at Douglas, and there’s a cold tickle down his cheek. Douglas’s thumb wipes the tear away, and Douglas’s hand is warm on reassuring on his jaw.

“What do you fancy for getting cleaned up? Bath or shower?”

“Shower,” Martin answers immediately. It’s still too soon to even think about another bath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The headcanon of Alpha saliva having soothing properties is my own. I [prompted](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/21231.html?thread=123465455) it once on the _Sherlock_ prompt meme because I didn't think I could write it myself, but I guess I was wrong?
> 
> I now have two folders of bookmarks for this story, "Emergency contraception" and "Dildos". From the latter (links NSFW, obviously), the crescent-shaped metal dildo is a [real thing](http://www.babeland.com/njoy-pure-wand/d/2732) (I was a little dubious about it being used for anal play, but the Babeland reviews proved me wrong), and [this](http://www.babeland.com/bandit-dildo/d/1331) is what I imagined for the "too realistic" one.
> 
> I use 'Omegala' as the plural for Omega in 'Omegala's Health Clinic' because the Greek 'omega' is actually 'o mega' where 'o' is the letter 'o' and 'mega' is the adjective for big. The plural of 'mega' is 'megala'. It sounds kind of silly though, so if anyone has a suggestion for a better Greek-inspired plural, let me know ;)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Douglas gets to the bottom and is faced with the pair of boxer shorts he peeled Martin out of two days ago, kneeling between Martin's legs in his little attic bedsit, getting ready to taste him and give him his first experience of partnered sex, it nearly makes blood rush southwards, even as wrung dry as Douglas's libido is. Whatever comes to pass, complications and consequences aside, Douglas isn't going to regret this.

It happened once, and Douglas took the opportunity to introduce Martin to the wonders of vibrating toys. It happened a second time, and Douglas spent a glorious thirty minutes feasting of Martin’s delights straight from the source, reaching around with one hand to wrap around Martin’s cock and pull orgasm after orgasm from him. 

But the third time Douglas’s knot deflates before Martin is near to finished, Martin is restless, unsatisfied with Douglas’s mouth or hands. He’s sore too, beyond what Douglas can alleviate with his mouth, and he frowns deeply at the offer of Douglas employing a toy to help relieve his need. 

So it’s come to this: with an uncharacteristic ball of icy nerves blooming in his gut, Douglas wraps his hand lightly around Martin’s straining erection and suggests, “Why don’t you put this to use?” 

Martin bites his bottom lip and stares at Douglas’s hand enclosing his cock. “How so?” 

“Use it for its intended purpose.” 

The penny starts to drop. “You mean–?” Martin isn’t actually blushing; he just looks uncertain, his shoulders and spine high and stiff, his gaze landing anywhere but on Douglas. 

“Put _this_ ,” Douglas tightens his grip and pulls down to the tip, then back to the root, “in _me_.” 

Martin doesn’t answer, and despite knowing with utter certainty that Martin isn’t a typical Omega, hasn’t grown up with ideas about who does what to whom and who _doesn’t_ , Douglas feels the icy ball in gut grow and spread. It’s hard not to take it personally. 

“It doesn’t–” Douglas starts, but Martin interrupts. 

“But–” 

“Yes?” 

“No, it’s stupid. I must be misunderstanding.” 

Martin _is_ blushing now, a tinge of red all the way down to his collarbone. 

“Tell me. I promise I won’t laugh.” 

“But you can’t– No, you will. It’s just–” 

“ _What_?” 

“You can’t actually mean that you want me to fuck you!” Martin exclaims. 

“And why can’t I want that?” 

“Because it’s so small!” Martin says in a barely distinguishable rush. 

Ah, Douglas should have known. Ninety-nine percent of Martin’s hesitations and missteps are rooted in his own insecurities. This isn’t really anything to do with Douglas, or to do with Martin’s ideas about who should and shouldn’t engage in particular sexual acts. 

“It doesn’t look small to me.” Douglas strokes the organ in question, paying special attention to the underside of the sensitive tip, drawing a groan from Martin’s lips. 

“Oh _come on_. Compared to you–” 

Douglas holds up a hand. “But that’s apples and oranges.” 

“Because I’m an Omega? Why does that matter? A cock–” 

“Is a cock is a cock? Not really, if you think about it. Consider the very important fact that I do not have a self-lubricating and dilating anus, for one. Believe me, _this_ ,” Douglas squeezes, “will be quite enough of a challenge for me to take.” 

“You really–?” 

“Yes, if you’d like to.” 

Martin’s blush darkens a shade, an answer in and of itself. 

Douglas on his back, with Martin above him, and not above him reaching back to hold Douglas’s cock steady before he seats it inside himself, not this time. Martin is on his knees between Douglas’s legs. He’s pushed one of Douglas’s knees out to the side with a cautious shove, angling it to improve his view of what’s he’s doing. 

The thrill of it is the same as its always been, though it’s been so long (ages and _ages_ ). It’s the thrill of doing something thought to be wrong (even though Douglas _knows_ it isn’t), something counter to the accepted norms (even though what’s accepted as ‘normal’ has no basis in reality), something that people don’t mention in mixed company, that once would have been shelved in the back corner even of _that_ kind of video rental and that now gets cleared from browser histories. 

Martin has long, slender fingers, and despite all his work at removals, his hands are soft. He’s started by dispensing a small amount of lubricant from the tube Douglas had retrieved, and he’s just spreading it slowly in Douglas’s cleft, avoiding any but the most glancing direct touch at Douglas’s hole. His touch is tentative at first, almost too light and ticklish, but when Douglas spreads his legs open farther, Martin appears to gather his courage and slides two fingertips to Douglas’s pucker, exploring with circling touches before pausing to retrieve more lube and pushing the tip of his index finger just inside. 

“Twist as you push,” Douglas suggests, and Martin complies immediately, biting his lip and staring fixedly as he exerts the full weight of his concentration on a gentle, twisting inward push. 

By the time Martin has two fingers inside and moving freely, he’s so far gone in his own arousal that his hips are moving in time with his fingers, his cock bobbing along to the rhythm, dark red and leaking copiously. Douglas reaches down to close a hand around Martin’s wrist. 

“Enough.” 

“Are you sure? I don’t want–” 

“It’s enough. Come on.” 

Douglas tugs Martin’s hand away and hooks his foot around the back of Martin’s thigh, pulling him close, trying to bury his own nerves in expediency. 

But Martin resists, pulls back. “Shouldn’t I–? Don’t I need a condom?” 

Douglas could laugh, but he doesn’t. “No, it’s fine. I can’t get pregnant, and I trust you were telling the truth about your experience, and, I might mention, in the regularity of your flight physicals.” 

“And you wouldn’t mind if I, you know, in you?” Martin’s blush is back, but his cock actually might have twitched at the roundabout reference to ejaculation. Or perhaps that’s just Douglas’s imagination. 

“I’m not bothered, no.” 

Martin still looks uncomfortable, the muscles of his back and hamstrings fighting Douglas’s leg trying to pull him in. 

“You can wear one if you like. I won’t stop you.” 

Martin nods and reaches for the box. He opens the packet easily enough, but he turns the condom over and over again, trying to detect which direction it will unroll. 

Douglas props himself up on his elbows. “Do you want me to show you?” 

Martin nods, holding the condom out. 

Now this, _this_ truly belongs on Douglas’s list of Things That Shouldn’t Be Arousing But Are. Martin, as always, watches with rapt attention and asks detailed procedural questions as Douglas’s shows him how to roll the condom on, how to pinch the reservoir shut and why. Martin’s hips try to find a rhythm pushing into Douglas’s hands as they work, but to look at him above the waist you wouldn’t know his desperation. Martin’s ability to focus on a task he deems important regardless of distractions is incredible, not that Douglas has’t noticed this before, but he might not have expected it to carry through the bedroom. 

When Douglas applies lube to the condom with twisting strokes, Martin’s attention returns southward. He grunts and pushes Douglas’s shoulders with surprising force as he shuffles forward and waits for Douglas to cooperate. His quick fingertips apply fresh lube and compulsively test Douglas’s hole a final time, pushing in and spreading slightly to assess the give. 

“Go on,” Douglas encourages, tilting his hips up. 

“Just…stick it in?” 

“Yes. Slowly.” 

Martin takes himself in hand and leans over, feeling around blindly until he catches Douglas’s hole with the tip of his cock. “ _Oh_ , that’s–” He pushes the head in, and the stretch is considerable but by no means unbearable. Douglas inhales deeply and exhales slowly, stroking one hand along the valley of Martin’s spine while he accustoms himself to the new sensation. 

“Can I?” Martin gasps, and Douglas can feel the tension in his back. Unsurprisingly, Martin is holding back, displaying truly remarkable depths of self-control and restraint as he waits, just the head of his cock seated inside. Douglas lifts his own hips off the bed slightly and moves his hands to Martin’s arse, pulling him in. 

It’s impossible not to remember. Every time like this feels like the first time. Stretching and fullness and pressure, comforting and terrifying. It’s like when he was a boy, going on holiday on the Cornish coast. There had been a little cove, quiet and still, with a cliff forming a rocky overhang on the Eastern edge, casting severe shadows over the water. The water was cooler there too, untouched by the sun, and Douglas had found that if he let out all the air from his lungs, he could sink to the bottom, where the sand wasn’t sand but silky mud silt, and he could lay on the bottom of the sea and look up to see only the outline of the overhang above, edged in the bright glow of the sun. The weight of the water was almost too much, but it was a comfort too, holding him down, and as dark and cold as it was, there was the glowing promise of sunlight and warmth. 

Martin’s weight can’t compete with the weight of all that water, but his prick, hot and hard and, every so often, twitching, provides the same nameless terror as it invades. Douglas clenches without meaning to, and Martin grunts and pushes his hips hard into Douglas’s arse, smothering a moan into Douglas’s neck. 

Douglas tips his head forward to kiss Martin’s temple and taste the sweat from his hairline. Martin lifts his head and shifts, his cock sliding out a couple of inches. Douglas shudders. 

“Can I?” Martin repeats. 

“Go ahead.” 

Douglas pulls Martin in by the back of the neck for a deep kiss. Douglas’s arse might belong to Martin for the moment, but Douglas proves that Martin’s mouth belongs to _him_. 

Martin’s rhythm builds slowly as he struggles to recover from the distraction of the kiss. Once he’s gathered up all the frayed ends of his attention, however, he picks up the pace and begins to fuck in earnest. He hips beat a rhythm against Douglas’s arse, and his mouth goes slack. Before long he’s turned away from the kiss to press his forehead into Douglas’s shoulder and focus his attention on fucking. He’s braced with one hand on the headboard and the other tangled in the sheets next to Douglas’s head. (Douglas can feel the shifting of the sheet as it’s pulled tauter whenever Martin braces for a particularly enthusiastic thrust, skin slapping on skin.) 

Holding Martin around the middle is like trying to keep hold of a fish out of water, flopping on the sand, suffocating in the air. Martin’s skin is salt-wet like the sea, and his whole torso is a study in efficient motion. He doesn’t even pause through his orgasm, not until Douglas’s hands slip and slip and finally grip and slow Martin’s hips to a stop. 

Martin grunts a protest, but Douglas only firms his grip. “Condom,” he explains. “Grip it by the base so it doesn’t slip off inside me.” 

Martin discards the condom in the bin while Douglas wonders what to do with himself while he waits. (Does Martin feel this awkward, waiting for Douglas to take care of the necessities?) When Martin returns, Douglas is still lying on his back with his legs spread. His brain screams, “Vulnerable!” but he pushes the thought aside and watches Martin’s face as his eyes drop to where Douglas hole is still slightly relaxed and open, probably shiny with lubricant and red with activity-induced increased blood flow. Martin leans over and kisses Douglas in the centre of his chest, sliding a single finger back inside, twisting and searching. 

“ _Fuck_.” 

Martin’s finger stills. “Good…or bad?” 

Douglas doesn’t answer for a moment. It’s not easy to decide. “Good.” 

Martin strokes circles over Douglas’s prostrate with a fingertip touch, and Douglas’s cock is still soft—completely worn out—but there’s pleasure in it all the same. Pleasure on the edge of _please don’t, too much_ but still pleasure. 

And then it is too much. So: “You can go again,” Douglas suggests. 

Martin’s finger is gone and his hand reaching for another condom almost before Douglas has finished speaking. He doesn’t hesitate when he pushes into Douglas for the second time; it’s all one smooth, deep push that makes Douglas’s toes curl. 

This is the inglorious end of a heat, unsynchronized and ungraceful. Martin is still going, pumping into Douglas steadily. He starts propped up awkwardly over Douglas, but he keeps looking down to where they’re joined, and eventually he gives up on the appearance of engaging Douglas and folds himself over again, his panting breath hot on Douglas’s neck, the wrinkles pulled out of the sheet under Douglas’s cheek as Martin’s fist pulls them tight. 

It isn’t exactly uncommon for an Omega’s heat to outlast an Alpha’s, but in this particular case the age difference between Douglas and Martin is surely a contributing factor, and that’s a reminder Douglas could have done without—not for the fact of the mere existence of a twenty some-odd years gap between them, but for the fact of the questions it raises. _What is this?_ Or rather, what is it going to become? 

Martin isn’t what Randall was; he’s not a romp between the sheets when a heat hits and it’s convenient for the both of them, no strings attached. Martin most definitely has strings attached. Colleague, friend, unwitting and then knowing object of unreciprocated deep…affection. They aren’t bad strings, especially now that the affection appears to be reciprocal. 

But what is this? And how is it going to work? Everything about the beginning of whatever-this-is has been structured by Martin’s heat, and after that recedes, it’s difficult—perhaps impossible—to see what the landscape will look like. Rocky, possibly, with Martin’s insecurities surfacing in awkwardness and misunderstandings galore. Or perhaps not misunderstandings, but a lack common understanding in general. Because there isn’t anything yet to understand. Nothing is set, nothing is decided, there is no precedent for _this_ between them. 

In their years-long acquaintance, Douglas hasn’t ever known Martin to have had a significant other. He’s been living in his attic bedsit for years and years, alone. And part of that must be his circumstances, surely; he can hardly afford better. But perhaps it’s partly by choice? Would Martin _want_ to cohabit, if that was an option down the road? It’s been easy enough to have him for the few days of heat, and aside from initial awkwardness, he’s relaxed into Douglas’s home well enough, treating it more or less like his own, at least as far as Douglas can tell. (He does the washing up (or tries, at least), he’s claimed a towel and a space on the towel rack, some of his dirty pants and vests have already found their way to the laundry bin.) But who knows what Martin’s reaction might be to the suggestion of long-term cohabitation. He does tend to the fiercely independent, and he dislikes accepting anything resembling an extension of charity. Given the disparity between how Douglas lives and how Martin does, any invitation for Martin to join Douglas in cohabitation is likely to be taken as charity, even if that’s not how it’s intended. 

And, to make matters worse, Douglas can’t actually say that there’s no element of charity involved. Martin the Omega—very much in opposition to Martin the Captain—brings out something charitable in Douglas, something base and Alpha-protective and really not entirely comfortable (not entirely something Douglas would like to admit to outside of the privacy of his own thoughts). There are a million reasons why that’s not all this is (Douglas was attracted to Martin long before finding out he was an Omega, for one), but it’s terrifying anyway to think that mindless biology is playing any size of role in the attraction. It feels phony, wrong, disingenuous, which is exactly why Douglas will have to restrain himself and wait to take his cues from Martin. But that’s not a good solution either. Martin is many things, but pro-active in his personal relationships does not appear to be a quality he possesses; waiting for his cue may be an indefinite wait, or he might send mixed signals, or… Or. Or. Or. 

To top it all off, there’s still the question of whether or not the emergency contraceptive will have had its intended effect and prevented Martin from becoming pregnant. The complications involved if _that_ goes wrong almost don’t bear thinking about. Not that Douglas would ever leave Martin to deal with the consequences alone, but it won’t—wouldn’t—be easy to work through the decisions to be made and their realities. 

A sharp tug in his hair brings Douglas back to the present, to Martin shuddering through a final orgasm with his teeth pressed into Douglas’s collarbone and a fist in Douglas’s hair. 

Martin stays inside Douglas as long as he can after he starts to soften. He’s a dead weight on Douglas’s chest, and Douglas’s hips have long since passed through uncomfortably aching into cold numbness, but it could be worse. Martin keeps rubbing his cheek against Douglas’s chest, humming softly, and he curls his hips in response when Douglas reaches for his arse, kneading it gently. 

“Do you think it might be over?” Martin asks, mumbling nearly unintelligibly into Douglas’s skin. 

Douglas has to replay the question on his mind’s audio track a second time before he can parse it. He rubs his palms from Martin’s shoulder blades back to his arse as he considers. 

“I don’t know. I think you’d have a better sense of that than me.” 

“But I’ve never been through this before!” 

“How do you feel? Different?” 

“Mm.” Martin rubs his cheek against Douglas’s chest again, his eyes closed. “Tired. I feel like I could sleep for days.” 

“You might want to–” _Take your prick out of my arse?_ “–clean up first.” 

“In a minute.” 

“ _Martin_.” 

Douglas nudges and prods and gets a hand between them to hold to the bottom of the condom himself so it doesn’t slip off inside Douglas’s rectum and necessitate a _very embarrassing_ trip to A &E. Martin pulls a face as the condom starts to slip off but makes no move to take care of it himself. Douglas grits his teeth, caught short by a sudden stab of actual annoyance, but he takes care of the condom nevertheless. When he returns from the loo, Martin has sat himself up, and he rises to a stand when Douglas approaches. He levers himself up onto his toes and kisses Douglas softly. Douglas feels his annoyance melting away, dissipating into nothing like a morning fog. 

_You’re welcome_ , Douglas almost says, because that kiss said _Thank you_. “Mind if I join you in the shower?” he asks instead. 

Martin nods and leads the way. He insists on washing Douglas first, soaping him from head to toe and occasionally getting distracted in the places he seems to like best: the centre of Douglas’s chest, his quadriceps, the broadness of his shoulders. Not to mention his cock, even flaccid, is still quite the object of interest (and care, thankfully; it’s a little sore from overuse). 

Martin lets Douglas wash him in turn, even though he’s clearly dropping into fatigue. He sways a little on his feet, and his eyes drift closed as Douglas soaps his chest and stomach with slow, rhythmic strokes. He winces when Douglas rubs soapy fingers into his cleft, but he doesn’t protest beyond such a subconscious reaction. 

Douglas catches Martin shivering when he’s towelling himself off, and that’s when he believes that Martin is right: it’s over. Martin’s body temperature has dropped back to its perioestral baseline, and the exhaustion from several days of near-constant activity and only restless sleep has caught up with him. Douglas could drive him home if he wanted, but Martin is dressing again in pyjamas, apparently planning to stay. 

Douglas installs Martin on the sofa with a tea while he strips the bed of its soiled sheets and replaces them with fresh. (Flannel, the only clean set left, but they’re season-appropriate and no longer inappropriate for an Omega in heat, so they’ll do just fine.) 

When Douglas goes to fetch Martin, he finds him snoring softly, his head tipped back over the back of the sofa, his half-empty mug of tea balancing precariously between his legs. Martin grumbles and resists when Douglas tries to pry the mug from his grasp, and he snorts inelegantly when he startles awake. 

Douglas can’t help but smile. Smile, and reach to ruffle Martin’s hair. “Come on, sleepyhead. Bed.” 

The large pile of laundry that Douglas goes to start on as soon as he’s tucked Martin away in bed (his reward another of those soft, clinging kisses dripping with gratitude) is not a pleasant sight, and the smell is even less pleasant. Stale sex and sweat, some of it musty from spending two days smothered at the bottom of the heap. But when Douglas gets to the bottom and is faced with the pair of boxer shorts he peeled Martin out of two days ago, kneeling between Martin’s legs in his little attic bedsit, getting ready to taste him and give him his first experience of partnered sex, it nearly makes blood rush southwards, even as wrung dry as Douglas’s libido is. Whatever comes to pass, complications and consequences aside, Douglas isn’t going to regret this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the looooong stretch between updates. You know the deal: RL was crazy. My apologies. One or two chapters to go, perhaps soon, perhaps not. A bit hard to say with the impending craziness of the holidays. :/


End file.
